“He squeezed my hand! That handsome Italian, Ettore, squeezed my hand!”Mae’s elation left her a moment later when she reminded herself that, perhaps, our driver was only being nice because it was the last day, and he hoped for a nice gratuity. I don’t think that was it, though. Ettore had been superb our entire trip, even if he hadn’t squeezed her hand until the last day.
Ettore was a good driver. He was gracious and courteous, even patient with us when some of our group fell late to the daily schedule.
That might have been us, once or twice.
Later, Mae nearly gave Ettore a heart-attack when she screamed while we drove down a narrow street, much narrower than our bus. Even after that he didn’t yell or fuss. He held his chest and gasped for air a few times, but he never yelled. Ettore seems to have been the exception to the rule of an otherwise overly-expressive society.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t as fortunate. My fondling was by a not-so-handsome Roman Gladiator just outside the Coliseum. Apparently my middle was just the place to get a nice handful of flesh. He’s lucky he didn’t get a mouthful of knuckle in return. They are gutsy, these Romans. And not all of them are as handsome as they think.
Note: When Mae read this post she squealed and insisted I take this post off, she didn't want everyone knowing she said that. Too bad. If you don't want something on a blog, you'd better not say it in the first place.
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