“Ayyy, G.I.,” said the driver cordially over his shoulder when Carter walked forward and plopped down in the first seat. “Parli l’italiano?”

“Si, un po,” said Carter, indicating that he spoke Italian just a little.

“Bravo,” nodded the assistant. “That’s unusual for an American.”

“How do you know I’m American?” said Carter, puzzled as ever by how the people in this country divined such information without being told.

The driver and his assistant were a jovial pair. At Carter’s question, the first gave an exaggerated shrug as he navigated the bus; the second threw his hands up as if to say, who knew? and then the two glanced at one another and laughed out loud.

When at last they quieted down, they asked Carter for his name. The driver in turn introduced himself as Enrico, while the assistant gave his name only as Il Direttore, the Director. For whatever reason, this prompted the two to break out once more into another round of raucous laughter.

Once calm returned, the two began to good-naturedly pepper Carter with questions. Where did he come from in America? Was Rhode Island near New York? What did he think of Italy? Was he having a good trip? How had he come to speak Italian so well?

Enrico and Il Direttore were much impressed to hear that Carter had only just taken up the study of their language three months earlier.

“Ma dica, Carter, cosa fai qui?” said Enrico. “Tell us, what’s an American boy like you doing all the way over here in Abruzzo?

“Just visiting some friends before I go home,” replied Carter, thinking the simplest answer would be the best. Then he asked, “How long before we get to Castelalto?”

“Oh, a little while yet,” said Enrico. “Why, are you in a hurry?”

“No,” said Carter with a grin. “Just wondering.”

“Good,” said the driver, “because I’m hungry.”

With that, Enrico suddenly slowed the bus and turned off the main route onto a roughly paved side road. He drove a short way, until they came to a collection of small, rather rundown-looking buildings next to a gas station. When he brought the bus to a halt and opened the door, Il Direttore stood and hurried down the steps. Before following him, Enrico turned to Carter.

“Carter, andiamo,” he said, nodding for him to come along. “Let’s go.”

Carter cast a skeptical look out the window. It was an out-of-the-way place, and he began to get an uneasy feeling.

“Go where?” he asked.

Enrico smiled, as if suddenly understanding Carter’s reluctance.

“A mangiare,” he said with a laugh. “To eat, of course!”