“It should have been a romantic week in Italy.”

That was the phrase continually taking over my thoughts. After all, I was on the Amalfi Coast at a four-star hotel in Positano, for a kind of pre-honeymoon with my probable future groom, but, well… the man was not there anymore.

Maybe he would still be if we hadn’t had that fight once we set foot in the hotel. Or perhaps not. Because, after what I had heard, I didn’t want to marry him anymore.

So, the only thing I could do was to pay the room’s bill (I couldn’t afford another night there) and catch a plane back home. I made a terrible mistake, thinking that Eduardo was “the one”. I should have known that he had met an Italian female he would give everything up for.

And this girl wasn’t me.

I was the least Italian person you could possibly find. I didn’t like pasta, I didn’t speak a word in the local language, I had never ridden on a Vespa, and I hadn’t even tried a gelato. I’d suggested France, but, as always, I let Eduardo take the lead. And look at how it all ended…

He was probably in Naples by now, while I contented myself with a white sheet and some exotic chocolates until the day was over, and I could go back to my good old Brazil, which I should never have left.

The next day, before leaving the hotel, I took one last walk around the city. Positano was lovely. Walking by the beach, I thought about the beautiful moments I could have had in this vertical city.

Strolling down the street leading to the highest part of town, where I could buy a souvenir for my family in those cute little stores, I almost got hit by a motorcycle. The motorcyclist honked at me, and, startled, I stumbled, luckily away from anything that could hurt me. He got off the bike and helped me up.

“Stai bene, ragazza?” I was only able to understand it because that was the same phrase in Italian the hotel receptionist said to me when he saw me crying after the fight with Eduardo and his immediate departure (“Are you okay, miss?”).

“Estou bem,” I muttered in Portuguese as I stood up. The man on the motorcycle looked at me with raised eyebrows, not understanding. Then I repeated the answer, now in English (“I’m fine”). Maybe I could try French if he continued not getting it.

He smiled, probably relieved that he didn’t hurt me. It was all my fault, though, for being in the middle of the street. For being in Italy, to begin with.

“May I ask your name?” English, after all, would make him at ease. I shook the dirt off my white shorts and looked at the man, observing his face for the first time. I guess I was too distracted before to have noticed that he was a very handsome Italian. His smile gleamed like the white clouds of Positano, and his skin, tanned by the Mediterranean sun, had the most attractive color I had ever seen.

“Vanessa,” I said, noticing now that he seemed quite happy to help an almost-hit-by-a-bike girl to compose herself.

“I am Cristiano,” he introduced himself, offering me his hand. I shook it, using my other hand to tame my hair, which was flying chaotically with the wind. “Where are you from?”

“Brazil.”

This time he raised his eyebrows with a different kind of surprise, a smile following his words.

“And what are you doing here, so far from home? Tourism… Honeymoon?”

I shook my head vehemently.

“No. I just… well, I—”

“Would you like to talk about this? I have nothing to do at the moment.” He shrugged.

I frowned. An Italian guy was flirting with me, precisely when I no longer wanted anything to do with men, especially if Italy was involved.

But after all, what more did I have to lose? I just had to avoid any risks by preventing anything from being built.

“I just have to go back to my hotel before they add one more night to my bill.”

“Where will you go after you leave Positano?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere with an airport…”

“I know a place. Do you want a ride?” He came closer with his motorcycle, gesturing for me to climb on the back.

I hesitated. If a man I knew for about a year had proven unreliable, what could I say about a complete stranger?

But this stranger can take me away from here, and he has beautiful green eyes. I didn’t need more than that at the moment. Perhaps never again.

“You can’t close yourself to love,” that’s what Cristiano commented when I got off his bike, in front of my hotel, after sharing with him the reason why I was leaving Italy less than forty-eight hours after my arrival.

“I don’t know why you assume that if I just said I was dumped by a jerk,” I said while walking to the half-wall at the end of the slope, where I rested my elbows and stared at the blue ocean below. Cristiano stopped by my side.

“Because it is what one can assume about women like you in this situation. That you will close yourself to love.”

“What do you mean by ‘women like me’?” I asked, somewhat annoyed. I shouldn’t have accepted his ride.

“There are two types of women. Those who, facing such a situation, would want to meet a lot of guys to vent their frustration. You’re the second type. You accepted my ride, but only because you plan to leave this country as soon as possible.”

“And your advice is for me to be the first type?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, and he didn’t see my expression – he was still staring at the blue waters – but disbelief leaked from my voice, which made him look in my direction.

“If you want your ticket here to be worth it, maybe we can make a few stops before the airport.”

I laughed at his suggestion and at the carefree smile playing on his face.

“Are you offering yourself to give me that romantic week I should have had?” I was still laughing. If I told anyone about this when I got back, no one would believe it.

“I hadn’t mentioned romance, but now that you did…”

The curious thing is that I didn’t care about his provocative words and suggestions. I was actually having fun. Perhaps it was his bold manners that made him so charming and his offer so irresistible…

“We barely know each other…” I said.

“Maybe that’s what it is all about, don’t you think? We, getting to know each other better. And you getting to know Italy. It would be unfair to leave with such negative memories.

“They are not negative anymore.” I smiled with honesty. He gave me his bright white grin, which made me see that perhaps he was right. There could be more madness in having thought about marrying Eduardo, even after a year living with him, than in accepting an unplanned trip with an almost-stranger until the date of my return ticket.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked, still not convinced this was a good idea.

Cristiano glanced at the boats on the horizon, then at me again, seeming thoughtful.

“I guess I was wrong, after all. You don’t want to close yourself to love, but quite the opposite. You’re already thinking about loving me, and you don’t even know me yet.”

“W-why do you say that…?” I stammered with outrage.

“Because if you wanted to simply have fun, you wouldn’t be afraid. Don’t you think you should get to know me first, and then decide whether to love me or not?”

I couldn’t help but smile. His logic was totally crazy… and made perfect sense.

“Cristiano, I would like a ride,” I said, happy and much more relaxed now. His eyes conveyed calm, like that beautiful — and romantic — scenario around me. He grinned again.

“Where to? Naples, Rome, Siena…?”

“All of those cities!” My smile was perhaps the largest one I had shown in a long time. He laughed with me, and then we stopped by the hotel. I paid my bill, took my backpack, and climbed on the motorcycle of a stranger. Someone I was dying to get to know better, as well as the country that brought me there for the wrong reasons.

But in the end, they were the right ones, as I ended up having my romantic week in Italy.

And a little more than that, actually. Because, a year ago, in Positano — being left by a man — I met an Italian whom I left everything for…

 Paula Ottoni 

Short-story also published in the anthology of the UFF Prize of Literature 2011, in Portuguese.