Page 40 of Italy Can Bite Me

I wink at Katie. “Care to test it out, bella?”

“Is this a real tradition, or are you trying to make a fool of me?”

“It’s an important ritual in my culture,” I defend, as I guide Katie to the spot. “Very historic. Very lucky.”

“Fine. But if I break an ankle spinning on ancient bull testicles, you’re carrying me for the rest of the tour.”

Merda. Now I’m imagining carrying her, that red silk sliding against my—stop.

Tour guide. You’re being a tour guide.

The seniors burst into applause as Katie starts to turn.

One spin. Her dress flares out like a rose blooming.

Two spins. Her smile lights up the whole gallery.

Three spins. Her laughter ricochets off the historic walls, bright and unfiltered, like it’s got a direct line to my chest. It’s a sound that almost makes me believe in miracles.

Something’s shifting inside me, and no, it’s not just my very insistent hard-on trying to weigh in. This is different. More substantial. And damn if it isn’t making me want to catalog every single one of her genuine, unguarded smiles.

***

“Behold,theheartofMilan herself, the Duomo di Milano!”

I spread my arms wide, showcasing the colossal cathedral, like I’m unveiling a masterpiece—which, to be fair, I am. The way those Gothic spires pierce the sky, how the marble glows pink and gold in the setting sun—pure fucking magic.

“Tonight I have arranged something special. A private tour that will take us through the cathedral’s secrets, ending with the most spectacular evening view in all of Milan—the Duomo’s rooftop terrace.”

I detect a subtle spark of approval in Katie’s eyes.

“The city lights will spread out below you like scattered stars,” I continue, letting my natural enthusiasm flow. “The marble angels watch over Milan’s sleeping streets. Trust me, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime view.”

The excited murmurs from my visitors hit me like a drug. This never gets old. Watching them fall in love with Italy in real time? That’s the real payoff. Not the euros, not the reviews.This.

And let’s be clear—this isnotthe kind of experience Italy Expresswould ever offer. Hell no. Those corporate robots put their tourists to bed by six p.m.—seven if they’re feeling generous—and God forbid anyone sees Milan after dark. They need their puppets bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for therivetingexperience of visiting souvenir shops at sunrise.

“We will meet back at this spot.” I check my watch. “One hour till go time! The piazza is yours to explore.”

I came up with the phrase “One hour till go time” during my first year of guiding. It was back when I learned the hard way that “Meet back here at 13:00″ meansWTF-o’clockto jet-lagged tourists who can barely remember what continent they’re on.

The seniors instinctively check their watches, phones, and those weird digital things hanging around their necks. It works every time. Something about the countdown gets their attention better than other instructions I’ve tried. Plus it’s catchier than “Please don’t wander off and get lost in a foreign city while I have a panic attack trying to find you.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Thomas tugs at my sleeve. “My blood sugar’s getting a bit low. Is there somewhere nearby I can get a snack?”

“Giuseppe’s. He’ll be pulling his signature pistachio cannoli from the oven right about now.”

I whip out my handy little notebook and pencil from my pocket. It’s not as fancy-schmancy as Katie’s binder, but it does the trick. Being a tour guide means helping people find their way. I draw her a quick map and hand her the paper. I’ve done this a thousand times.

“Tell him Matteo sent you. He’ll wrap up something special.”

“Any chance there’s a bathroom near that bakery?” Bob asks, doing an emergency-level potty dance.

“Even better. The café two doors down from Giuseppe’s has the cleanest restroom in the district. Just buy an espresso first”—I slip him a two-euro coin—“and tell Sofia behind the counter you’re with Monti Tours.”

“Well now,” Howie’s voice booms above the crowd. “Miss Delightful, I do believe there was a sapphire necklace with your name on it back at the Galleria. I must say it would complement your eyes.”

“You Southern Casanova, you had me at delightful.” Deb entwines her arm with his, and they stroll back toward the elegant archway.

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