Page 27 of Italy Can Bite Me

“The bus smells different today. Less dead animal, more toxic fart bomb.”

I bark out a laugh without thinking. She’s got a mouth on her, this one. Makes a man wonder what else that sharp tongue can do. And she’s not wrong. The smell is another reminder of how far Monti Tours has fallen. Running a travel company takes a lot of business skills, something I am not exactly known for.

But that’s a problem for future Matteo.

“You are aware,” she starts, “that customer expectations are everything in the service industry, right? You need proper protocols, quality assurance standards—”

“Trust me. My customers always leave very, very satisfied.” I let my voice drop an octave on the last word.

“That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“Perhaps.” I wink, enjoying how her blush deepens. “I want you to understand how dedicated I am at providing… full service.”

I snatch the mic before Katie can dive into what I’m sure would be a riveting lecture on the importance of schedules and punctuality. Maybe she’d even give me a sneak peek at her… binder.

Okay, fine. I meant her breasts.

“My friends!” My voice fills the bus. “Time for the moment of truth. Should we stick to our safe, already planned schedule…” I pause, aware of Katie’s knuckles going white around her binder, “…or should we let another Wish Card guide us to something magical?”

The response is instant and deafening. These seniors appear to be sweet, but they’ve got rebel souls. “Wish Card! Wish Card!”

“The people have spoken.” I look directly at Katie, and sure enough, those beautiful green eyes of hers are ablaze with irritation.

“Get ready, everyone! I’m taking you on a surprise trip to a secret destination. You’ll see that the best memories are made when you least expect them!”

I flash her a victorious smirk, and she responds with an over-the-top eye roll. For a second, I wonder why seeing her all riled up is making my pulse race. But I’ll have to dissect that thought later—right now, my audience awaits.

“Time for your morning Italian lesson!” I scan the eager faces. “Who remembers how to tell Lorenzo we’re ready to roll?”

“Guida l’autobus, Lorenzo!” they shout in their best attempt at Italian.

Lorenzo, that magnificent creature of few words and questionable hygiene habits, stomps the gas like he’s crushing his enemies. The bus shudders to life, and we rattle out of Milan like a can of loose change. Within minutes we’ve left behind the chaos of the city for the breathtaking backdrop of northern Italy. The road unfolds like a love letter to my homeland—dramatic mountain peaks, endless sky, while patches of wildflowers paint the hillsides in bursts of color.

“Let’s spice things up with some essential Italian phrases,” I announce. “First up—dove è il bagno?”

My exaggerated pronunciation elicits giggles from the tourists as they slowly echo, “Doh-vay eel bahn-yo?”

“Congratulations! You’ve all unlocked the key to survival anywhere: ‘where’s the bathroom?’”

Chester, the group’s resident comedian, stands up in a T-shirt that readswith a body like this, who needs hair?“Bathroom schmathroom! At our age, we’ve upgraded to portable plumbing!” he declares, patting his hip with a wink. “We’ve got the luxury of adult diapers!”

Laughter explodes across the bus, followed by more loud, raunchy jokes that would scandalize a proper tour guide. Good thing I’ve never been proper.

Katie stares out the window like she’s determined to be miserable her entire vacation. It’s a challenge, I realize, to break through her walls and get her to loosen up. Lucky for her, I’m a man who doesn’t back down easily.

“Next phrase!Mi scusi, non parlo italiano—”

“Hang on, handsome!” Deborah’s bold voice cuts in. “Forget the tourist talk. How do you say ‘your place or mine’?”

I swallow a laugh. While Katie’s got herself wrapped tighter than a nun’s habit, her aunt’s basically Betty White at Mardi Gras—beads optional.

“Trick question,” I say coolly, playing along. “An experienced woman, in any language, knows the way to speak this… is with her body.”

Deborah pushes out her chest and shimmies, her movements eliciting hoots and hollers from the laughing crowd. Her carefree spirit is contagious.

A distinguished Texan by the name of Howie Dixon rises to his feet. His tall, muscular frame makes him an imposing sight, especially for someone in their seventies. His gray mustache adds to his rugged charm.

“How do y’all say ‘Sorry about my large erection,’” he blurts out with a laugh, his strong Southern drawl adding to the absurd situation.

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