I likewise introduced myself. Just then a man, shirtless, maybe in his late fifties with a belly hanging over his swimsuit and a cigar clamped between his front teeth, stopped in front of her chair. “Buon giorno, zuccherino.”

She flicked her hand at him as if to brush him away. “Vai, vai, vai.”

He walked away smiling. Eliana turned back, shaking her head, though more amused than annoyed. “He called me his little sugar. I hope my husband gets here soon. The Italian men regard a lone woman the same way they would a bill on the sidewalk.”

I smiled at her metaphor. It was true.

She took a drink of bottled water then settled back in her chair. She asked, “How did you find this place? You’re a long way from the usual tourist haunts.”

“My real estate agent told me about it. I’m not really a tourist. I moved here with my family two weeks ago. We have a cottage, about eight kilometers from here in San Donato in Collina.”

“It’s beautiful in San Donato. Do you have any children?”

“Five.”

“Five. That’s a lot of children. Especially for Italy.”

“Women always congratulate us. They say complimenti . The men just ask ‘perché?’ ” Why?

Her mouth twisted with a smile of understanding. “Yes, they would. How are you all adapting to your new life?”

“Good. Mostly. It’s not all gardenias and Bella Tuscany.”

“Every sweetness has its bitter. The romance usually ends for Americans after they get pickpocketed or run over by a scooter.”

“We’ve had our moments. When we landed in Venice our Italian guide never showed up. We took one of those unmarked taxis and ended up paying seventy dollars for what should have been a three-minute cab ride. Then, after we got to Florence, the car dealership wouldn’t give us the car we paid for. They said we needed some number from a permesso di something. They gave me an address in downtown Florence where I could get it.”

She nodded. “It’s the address of the questura—the police headquarters. You need a permesso di soggiorno. But it’s not that easy to get.”

“What is it?”

“Basically it’s permission to live in Florence.”

“I thought that’s what our visa was for.”

“No, it’s something else. With Italian bureaucracy it’s always something else.”

“How long does it take to get a permesso di . . . ?”

“Sog-gior-no,” she said slowly, breaking the word into syllables for my benefit. “It takes a while. Unless you know someone high up in government, or the priest of one of the bureaucrats, it could take as long as a year. How long do you plan to stay in Italy?”

I groaned. “About a year. The car dealership won’t release our car until we have one. We’re still renting a car.”

“Don’t worry. There’s always a back door. Go to the questura and apply, then take the receipt from your application to the dealership. If you ask nicely, they’ll likely give you the car anyway.”