Twenty lines crisscrossed, converged, twisted and took on the characteristic of a plate of spaghetti noodles. A dozen Italians surrounded me as I was looking at the map, pointing franticly at the different routes. Do they know how to get there I inquired, there being obvious. Only one of them spoke enough English to answer me, some euro trash whore who must have been putting out for the group. I wasn’t really answered in English though, it was more of a tug on my shirt and a ‘follow.’ We climbed into one of the subways and crowded the compartment. En route to the fair grounds I learned that the older guy owned an irish pub in some obscure hamlet in Tuscany. He was enthusiastic to visit the Spaten tent to pay homage to his beer tap back home. This was of course translated. How and why would someone own an Irish pub, the roach motel for Anglophones, without speaking any English themselves. (I quickly dismissed my scorn when I remembered the Italian restaurants back home with people. Riving back home that night, I really found it difficult to get Diane out of my mind. For the first time since Connie, I had found a girl I really felt attracted to. With Connie, it wasn't so much a physical attraction for her as it was another quality, which I had taken to labeling charisma. With Diane, it was a strong physical attraction, plus the fact I liked her flamboyant and exuberant approach to life. How many girls would have been willing to make the kind of public spectacle of themselves she had? The confrontation with Leon and the other girl, and then the public display of herself she later made, collapsing on the sidewalk like that, and then crying so intensely. Even her sitting in the restaurant, blithely telling me all about her past sexual history had convinced me she was someone who wasn't afraid to embrace life fully. I wanted to be around her, to draw on some of her life force, for my own benefit. She had enough zest to release me from the funk I had fallen into.It is.
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