An Awkward Afternoon In Florence

I was in the nerd line. The one reserved exclusively for people who had the annual pass to the Uffizi Gallery. What could I say? I liked art. I especially liked unlimited access to art.

As I waited for the museum to open, the guard who was directing traffic, answering the same question over and over again – “which line do I get in?”- sensed my non-Italianness and asked me where I was from. In between his logistical responses – “this line here to the right”- we began to chat.

In two minutes, the museum would open up, and not only being first in line, but first in the nerd line (queen of the nerds), I would be the first person in the place. Guard man made his move, asking me to get a coffee sometime and I told him with my practiced apologetic look that I was not single, but that I was quite flattered. Lusingata. It was a strange and beautiful word in Italian.

And then…

“Megan?”

He had spotted me. Andrea was also in the nerd line. I had seen him walk up, but being the type who likes to go to museums alone, I was hoping he wouldn’t see me. And he hadn’t. But he had heard me.

“I recognized your voice,” he said in Italian. A nice way to be recognized. And so, as the museum opened we went in together. Andrea was one of those people I knew in Florence without really knowing him. He had chatted with me once in a museum (ironic!) and then we proceeded to run into each other about ten times in the center, once even going to see a movie about Caravaggio together, nerds that we were. He was a tour guide and immediately began to tell me how horrible it had been to go through quarantine and lose all his clients for the season.

Poor Andrea.

I felt a free tour coming on. I was right.

“Do you mind if I tell you some of the facts? This way I can practice.”

The old me would have invented an excuse to be alone and decompress in between my freelance jobs. The new me wanted to learn some art facts and cheer up my dear friend Andrea.

“I’d love it.”

As we walked through the museum, he explained why the medieval panels had gold backgrounds, a secret motive for the profiled face of the Duke and Duchess of Urbino, the salacious story about Fra Filippo Lippi and his scandalous love affair, and the reason the public had swooned so hard for Botticelli’s Primavera.

At one point, I stopped to compliment his tour guide skills, saying that he should start a podcast or teach online until tourists return. He bashfully showed me a photo of himself holding a trophy in front of an Airbnb backdrop. Last fall, he’d won an award for his outstanding tours.

One American boy who had toured with Andrea had left him a confusing review. “He wrote, ‘You are the shit,’” Andrea said in his thick Italian accent. “I was so confused but I see five stars. So I search on Google.”

I laughed, imagining the confusion that could result from swapping the “the” for an “a”. But Google had helped Andrea understand this was a mighty fine compliment coming from a young adult.

After an hour or so, I excused myself so I could get home and prep for work a little early, thanking Andrea for my free tour and offering to repay him with a beer later on. But my feet took me to Zara to take a peek before I hopped online.

When I walked in, I accidentally squirted the guard with the required dose of hand sanitizer. My eyes widened, but I laughed in spite of myself.

“Did I get ya?” I asked in Italian.

“You did it on purpose!” he joked. At least I had kept him from falling asleep on the job.

I bought an outfit, and as I passed the guard on my way out, I pointed to the hand sanitizer container and said, “Occhio!” Look out.

He smiled and said in Italian what I thought was, “It was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I responded. But wait, no, he hadn’t said what I thought he was going to say. My brain had connected the dots too early and now registering what he’d really said made my response suggestive.

 “You drive me wild,” he had said.

“Likewise,” I had responded.

I walked out of the store laughing out loud. Crap. I could never shop there again. Maybe that was just what I needed to cure my fast fashion habit.

I crossed the piazza, heading back to my apartment, giggling to myself, and thinking of how I’d tell my friends later that I’d accidentally hit on the security guard at Zara when…

“Oh, look who it is!”

The guard from the Uffizi line was also crossing the piazza.

“It’s destiny,” he said. He was on his way to get some water.

“Natural or sparkling?” I asked him.

“You’re very quick witted for someone who’s not a native speaker,” he said.

And with that, my Zara blunder was erased. Sometimes we’re funny on purpose, sometimes we’re funny on accident, and sometimes you have three awkward interactions in one afternoon. Life is funny that way.