OK, just when I thought Italy was really getting on my last nerve.

As usual, when I am about to blow my proverbial emotional gasket, I turn to a member of the cavatappi support group Nightingaleshiraz for verve venting and vino.

Both of us are at, or approaching, our two year living-in-Italy mark, and for a variety of reasons, have had quite a few battle scars in the visa/employment sector to show for it. However, me being somewhat of an old fart, I begin to take it a bit more personally as I feel my wrinkles ratio as an employment deficit than as a vanity driven figurative one. Add to that, my employment value ratio dropping with every birthday I have over 40. (Shut up I am not telling you how many!) I begin to look at my future Italian job contracts with more than a little trepidation.

Anyway, after two glasses of good Elba wine, a sip (or two or three) of a new Cortonese Shiraz, and half plate of fantastic cheese and truffled salami, things begin to appear slightly less dire in the face of poor wages, horribly unrewarding work, and no end in site to the Italian bureaucracy.

After bidding a friendly buona notte, to our increasingly well loved enoteca owner, we wander out into the cool night air leaving the Campo di Fiori area to head along the river, making our way towards our ever faithful steed, the number 23 bus for Prati.

Scene Two: ENTER NEEDY TOURISTS ON VACATION WITH QUESTIONS::::::

Walking along, talking randomly about life in general, the secret lives of suspicious cats, and our fascination with things equally only humorous to womenfolk, we are stopped by a willowy iris in pretty heels and flowery dress and her equally well coiffed beau who ask Andi in halting Italian fresh out of a Berlitz course, "mi scuzeeee maaaaaaa dough veh pren day la bus ticket??????"

To which Andi yawningly answers....."you can speak to me in English if it is easier for you"

And being cute and helpless in the face of no near-by bars in which to buy tickets, we tell them we are all heading for the same bus and we will try and persuade the driver to sell them a ticket on the bus or perhaps turn a blind eye to their empty hands.

Relief flooding her face, the ragazza proceeds to do what all needy tourists do in this situation......gush.

Giving us their life story in 30 seconds we discover that these two walking ads for a Vacationing-in-Italy photo shoot are here from the US on (what else) their honeymoon! And as they are template caricatures of hip West Coast Americana, we-want-to-see-and-do-it-all types, they are staying in the country for what…… maybe ten days???? And besides Roma, have plans to visit Florence, the Tuscan countryside and of course, the terribly chic Amalfitan coast.

Several minutes pass, as we walk along the jasmined Lungotevere towards our fermata (bus stop), and Andi with the diplomacy of the finest UN protégé (or the most patient of expats) points out to the starry-eyed couple that although pocket romance novel inspiring, cruising along Amalfi's hairpin coastline on a motorino when you are not used to the roads or the Italian driving mentality, could in fact make them newly-deads, instead of newlyweds. And sheepishly, while waiting for the bus to pull up, they concede that perhaps renting a car, might be a bit more prudent game plan.

Scene Three: ARRIVES THE EVER FAITHFUL STEED::::::BUS NUMBER 23 - TO PIAZZALE CLAUDIO

Hopping on the bus, Andi, who is way younger, and way cuter than me, asks the driver politely if he can help the couple out but remarkably gets absolutely nowhere. ATAC is stepping up their control of riders he remarks and while making every effort to say sorry (more than we expected...usually you get abject indifference in these situations) he cannot say that they won't get fined if they hop on without benefit of tickets.

Beginning to get concerned that the four of us are holding traffic and his route, we quickly advise the honeymooners that cab fair should be about 10 bucks and they agree that this is worth the splurge so they hop off and let us mass transporters get on our way.

Since Mr. Autobus was so nice, Andi continues to chat with him as our bus meanders its way along the riverfront while I merely nod in agreement every now and then. (The result of too much wine being that my Italian becomes all but unintelligible except for the occasional “si, si”, and “certos” interjected occasionally).

So as we jiggle our way towards Citta di Vaticano the two discuss how it is possible in Firenze to buy tickets directly from the bus driver after a certain hour and about the philosophy of bus rules and regulations as they relate to Rome’s ATAC system for those of us forced to ride on a system heavily overburdened, but often times fairly useful.

About midway through this conversation is where all my frustration about living and working in this perplexing country begin to evaporate.

And all for the simplicity of one enamoured bus driver.

Since Andi is adorable, olive skinned and doe eyed, and speaks a fine Italian, it is no small wonder that our driver is instantly captivated. When she tells him that, no, she is not Italian, but rather, was born in Pakistan, he forgets to stop when one of his passengers rings the bell and has to pull over one street farther up.

Smiling , and thinking to myself that ...yep...she has done it again, I listen intently as he smiles and gestures and proceeds to ask lame question after exceedingly lame question about what countries border her home country solely in an effort to keep the conversation rolling. Then at a particularly animated point in their conversation he begins talking with both hands.....

NEITHER OF WHICH ARE NOW ON THE STEERING WHEEL

as we bend and curve and sway our way through the evening streets of Rome.

Now for most people accustomed to mechanized transport that might be extremely fear provoking but you know you are becoming a native when it doesn’t even phase you, but instead makes you think...."Man, I could do that with my old Saturn but with a long Mercedes bus.....wow!"

Conversation continues to flow like fine wine for another 7 or 8 minutes and at the next requested passenger stop, our besotted driver remembers to stop, but forgets to open the door, all the while happily oblivious to the fact that his few remaining passengers are being inconvenienced (though none complain, just politely yell out "Hey!!!!!! Apri la porta per favore!".)

But by now Andi and I realize that not only are we just about home, but we probably should get off before someone on the route gets seriously upset and decides to complain that our love struck driver is more than a bit inattentive.

We tell him this is our stop and he opens the front door, (letting us exit through the entrance) and we say our "notte’s” before walking towards home.

Laughing conspiratorially, I am as amazed as I always am at the little things that make me love living here. How it isn’t the grand piazzas or the marbled steps, that make me want to stay here, or the fine museums, or La Dolce Vita , but the life and colour that breaths its way into even the dirty soles of my feet after a long day teaching, book bag still slung over my shoulder 12 hours later, on a simple spring night even when I least expect it.

~me