Looking up, the cobbler spotted me watching and beckoned me over. Handing me the glue brush he motioned that I should apply the glue to the next shoe heel. A small crowd of passersby gathered to watch me, one of the chosen people, in other words, a child, perform this important task. When I had successfully spread the glue the onlookers applauded. In Italy children were little kings and queens who could do no wrong and for whom even casual strangers felt obliged to take personal responsibility.

As Janet and I walked we picked up that inevitable escort any girl over twelve and below the age of thirty, especially a foreigner, especially an American foreigner, is given free of charge by the male populace of Italy. Three young men were now walking ten feet or so behind us, rather behind Janet. They seemed pleasant lads, one was even quite handsome. They were probably about sixteen years old.

“Just ignore them, and they’ll go away,” hissed Janet.

“Hello, baybee!”

“Hello, beuteeful girl.”

“Hello, you America, me Italia!”

“Bella!”

Vent qui.

“Hi, Americano.”

“Keess me, beauteeful!”

Janet had me by the hand, pulling my arm into an involuntary straight-arm fascist salute as she hurried us along, retracing our steps in order to find Mom and Dad, who, as she said, “will make them go away!” This last directed to the three boys who laughed uproariously and redoubled their efforts.

“Hi, America!”

“I lovea you preetty!”

“Chicago, New York!”

“Hello, baybee. Hello!”

We rounded one corner and then another, passing three French girls in bathing suits walking in the opposite direction, who had five boys following them, calling out in heavily accented pseudo French.

“Ciao! Ma jolie.”

“Bonajoura, bella.”

The French girls seemed to be enjoying the attention. But Janet was made of sterner stuff. Indeed she was not about to let anyone look at her Christmas presents before it was time to share, “that most precious gift, our bodies, the temple of the Holy Spirit,” with the person God chose for her, as He had chosen Rebekah for Isaac.

As we came to the next corner in the alley, Janet pick-uped her feet and ran, then in one fluid motion, she stopped, let go of my hand, turned, and magnificently swept off one of her heavy, wooden-soled clog sandals. Holding it lightly by the toe she raised this instrument of virtue over her head just as the three laughing boys rounded the corner.

“Hello, America!”