In Search of Raoul Bova..Florence By Night

I spent last night in Florence with a couple of girlfriends. We went to Happy Hour at their favorite place and sat outside to drink a Prosecco and girltalk. Out of the blue, a tall, greasy-haired man walked over to our table and asked if he could join us. He asked my friend "adorable-blonde" and she said no. He insisted. He stood there trying to strike up conversation and I remained silent, observing. When my two friends refused to give their names, he became hot and cold, aggressive and nice.

I sat there chewing over this grease-man and decided that new people are interesting people and that it took courage as a single man with greasy hair to approach three drop-dead gorgeous women at a table, so I did it...I opened my mouth. And then it began...

Grease-man: You aren't Italian, are you?
Me: No, I'm American.
Grease-man: Wow, I love America. I've been to New York, Washington D.C., and Philadelphia. I climbed the Twin Towers. What's your name?

My friend leaned over to me and said, "Make one up, this guy is crazy."

Me: Jodi, very nice to meet you.

He smiled, calmed down and proceeded to tell me that he didn't like Americans in Florence because they come, get drunk, go home and sleep with Italians and then claim date-rape.

No comment.

Then he continued the conversation by telling us he saw Nirvana in concert in '96. I smiled for the first time during the conversation. Finally, a friend came over to the table and that gave us an excuse to part our ways. Grease-man smiled and kissed our six cheeks goodbye.

Maybe he'll think twice before stereotyping all Americans in Florence.

So I spent the night in Florence and went club-hopping, met all types of men but found absolutely no Raoul Bova.

The hunt continues...