Page 14 of Italy Can Bite Me

These corporate tours? They’re Italy through a window—sanitized, scheduled, safe. My tours? We’re Italy face-first in the pasta sauce. Every day is different. Every group brings new stories, new adventures.

I catch Corporate Ken’s eye as I pass, flashing him my best I-actually-enjoy-my-job smile. He doesn’t react—he can’t. Not enough time in the schedule. He can keep his shiny red flag and predictable destinations. Because my people leave Italy with more than souvenirs. They’ll bring home memories worth savoring.

I finally arrive at the garage. Lorenzo’s hunched over the engine, newsboy cap askew, wispy white comb-over fighting a losing battle. His shirt’s a canvas of coffee, crumbs, and oil stains, with his finger shoved up his nose like a five-year-old on a playground, and yep—plumber’s crack on full display.

He hikes up his pants, turns, and gives me a stern look, his weathered face spelling out just how fucked the air-conditioning situation is.

In five years, I’ve seen the man smile exactly twice. He prefers communicating in grunts and shrugs. But he’s the best driver in the business, and his ability to go entire days saying nothing butsìandnois worth more than any other chatty driver I’ve worked with.

I set my collection of supplies on a greasy workbench. “Give it to me straight.”

Lorenzo holds up three fingers.

“Hundred?” I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head no.

“Thousand?”

A single nod yes.

My stomach drops faster than the time I tried to make my own limoncello.

“To fix the AC?”

Another nod.

“Can we—”

He gives a noncommittal shrug.

I’ve learned to fill in Lorenzo’s verbal blanks. It’s like playing the world’s most expensive game of charades. “Okay, so a temporary fix?”

Nod.

“How long will it—”

He shrugs one shoulder. In Lorenzo-speak, that means “don’t push your luck.”

I peer into the bus’s guts, as if I’ll suddenly develop mechanical expertise and spot a miracle solution. Instead, I’m hit with a cacophony of metallic clanging and desperate sputters, as if a junkyard orchestra is warming up. “She’s getting worse, huh?”

“Sì.”

“What about the inside of the bus? Does it still smell?”

“Sì.”

“So did something really die in there?”

He holds up three fingers again.

“Three… possibilities of what died?”

He rolls his head in frustration. “Pulizie.”

“Three professional cleanings and the interior still smells?”

A single, solemn nod.

---