As it happens, I’m not particularly in the talking mood, especially not with complete strangers who insult my pizza, so I look around the courtyard to start plotting my escape. “Mi dispiace,” I then say in my best Italian accent. “Non parlo inglese.”

He gives me the once-over. “You don’t speak any English?” I continue to look at him with a puzzled expression. “Right. Mi scusi,” he amends.

I scour my head for a proper response and come up with, “Va bene.”

My Italian must be passable because the stranger gives me a hasty nod farewell. With his stiff posture and his hands pinned behind his back, it comes out looking more like a bow as he straightens up and walks past me, reminding me of a character from a Regency novel. Maybe my next romantic hero will be a dashing but snooty redhead. I mull the thought over as I take another bite of my apparently inappropriate breakfast.

My meal is disrupted once again a couple of minutes later when I’m approached by two older women wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and fanny packs. They may as well have American flags wrapped around their shoulders. I immediately love them.

One of the ladies steps right up to me. “Hello, dear. Do you speak English?”

“I do,” I say with a smile. “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, wonderful! Yes, can you tell us where the closest Metro stop is?”

She thrusts a street map of Rome into my hands and I’m able to find our location easily enough.

“Okay, we’re here, so if you go a few blocks this way and then make another right, you’ll find the Cipro station.” I trail my index finger along her route to give an additional visual.

She beams at me in gratitude. “Wonderful! Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Have fun.”

The ladies are off to the races and I have to grin as I watch them rush away. I remember the excitement I felt on my first day in Rome. It must be nice to travel with a friend, though. The exhilaration of exploring a new place could only be amplified when you’re sharing it with someone you care for.

Deciding it’s best not to dwell on that particular subject, I take my last bite of pizza and stand up, brushing my hands together to dust off any loose crumbs, and start walking through the courtyard. Then I freeze. The redheaded pizza-hater is directly in my path, just a few feet away. His hands are still clasped behind his back as he looks at me with an amused expression.

I’m going to go ahead and assume that he just heard me speaking in perfect English. I act without thinking and do a quick curtsy. “Scusi,” I say, bustling past him and bounding into my apartment building.