THE LOVE BOAT (PART II)

After a simply exhausting day on the beaches of Corsica, Amanda and I decided to nap, supp and explore the ship.  It was that evening (on the predominately European boat) that we stumbled upon an English-speaking hang out---the piano bar.  As we passed by, a sexy Australian voice serenaded the crowd with pub-favorites and funny jokes; jokes I could actually understand.

Happy to hear something I didn’t need Amanda to translate, I convinced her to duck in for a drink.  There were Scotts, Irishmen, Australians, Englishmen and even a few Americans---but still, no potential flings in site.  Everyone was holding someone else’s hand, or (depending on their alcohol intake) someone else’s tush.

We avoided those people.

We held onto our drinks instead and moved closer to the piano.  The pianist looked up and smiled as if to welcome us to his humble home. 

Once some of the sillier songs were out of the way, he began crooning a Sinatra classic---Fly Me to the Moon.  My ears perked up as his vocals took on an almost Jamie Cullum quality; with a confidence and rasp I hadn’t heard in his other ditties.

Side-note… Jamie Cullum ranks number two in the “men I’m allowed to leave you for” list.  When I enter into a serious relationship, my terms are clear.  If someday I meet and/or manage to intrigue Michael Buble, Jamie Cullum, George Clooney or James Morrison, pack yo’ bags, sucka! 

But, I digress…

As the set was ending, Amanda nudged me.  “Ask if you can sing one, Al!”

[Amanda and I routinely seek ways to show off our vocal prowess in public; in her opinion this was a golden opportunity.]

“Oh… no.  People are leaving and I’m sure this gentleman has other things to do.”

“So you’re a singer, aye?” the Australian musician interrupted.

“Yes” I chuckled.  “I sing jazz back in New York.”

“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he asked.

“Oh, umm… piss?  No, of course not, I don’t want your pi---”

“So what are we singing?” he laughed.

I softly performed The Nearness of You, after which he invited me for a drink.

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in a booth at the club, conversing quite easily.  He wasn’t wonderful looking, and his club-dancing turned out to be hilariously awkward---but what he was about to say would seal the deal.

“I’ve actually met Cullum!”

This seemed so inconceivable, so incredible, so indescribable, I had to hear it again.

“Wha-wha-what now?”

“Yeah… we were signed to the same label back in the day.  He bought me a drink and told me about his upcoming covers.  He’s a goofy mate, I tell ya.”

Great voice, nicely dressed, no wedding ring AND he was now the *one* degree of separation between me and my creative idol.  Sold!  This guy was getting a kiss!

We sauntered along the windy decks, discussing music, performing and family.  Being a ship-employee, he knew all the best views.  “Ladies first.” He said as we climbed the stairs to an upper deck.  But I couldn’t wait… I wanted my kiss and I wanted it now!  I turned around to meet his gaze---er, at least I would have met his gaze if I hadn’t tripped on my heel and fallen down five steps.

“Oh shit!” he screamed.  “Are you okay?”

“Oh yeahh…. Fine.  Nobody saw that.”   

“What was that about?”

“I was turning around because, well…[what did I have to lose?] I thought you might like a kiss.”

“Oh…” he replied.  “Alex I would,” he said helping me up.  “You’re lovely, but there are cameras everywhere.  I’d get the sack if they caught me fraternizing with a guest.”

“Right… right.  That makes sense.”

--- Awkward silence---

“Well… I’d better turn in.” I said, limping away.

“Are you sure you don’t want…”

“I’m good!  Have a great night!”

And the saga continues...

THE LOVE BOAT (PART I)

Three coins lighter, it was time for the second part of our trip---the cruise!  Fat Fabrizio (one of our new Roman friends) graciously discounted his car service to get us to port.

“Tell [skinny] Fabrizio we love-ah him!” I thought as we said our goodbyes.  Though I was excited for our new experience, leaving Rome was a bittersweet parting. 

BUT---within a couple hours we were on the Mediterranean and I---a personal mission.  Somewhere between the magic of the Trevi fountain and my first breath of salty air, I vowed to get me a sweet vacation kiss before this trip was out.

Now, I don’t care who you are or which direction your moral compass points; most people crave a little fling while on vacation.  So, it’s only with slight shame that I declare I’m no exception.   The ship was filled with bars, lounges, nightclubs, and many promising opportunities to mix and mingle.  Plus we were scheduled for six stops, and we’d surely pick up a few more hotties along the way.  This is going to be a piece of cake, I thought.

Amanda and I sat at the bar reviewing pictures from our day in Genoa.  We’d been to an aquarium, eaten pounds of delicious pastry and (most importantly) purchased some FABULOUS $7 shoes.  There was only one problem---day two had almost ended, and I was still no closer to my aqua-romance.

“Amanda, seriously… where are all the men?” 

“Hmm, let’s see,” she replied.  “Were you looking for married, gay, man-whore, under age, toothless, wrinkly or just plain creepy?”

It was true.  If they weren’t already taken, most of our fellow cruisers were simply not fling material.  As I was about to throw in the towel, a strapping Italian man caught my eye.  I ran through the usual vitals---cute face, nicely dressed, no wedding ring.  Check.  This man would do.

Via Amanda, [my bi-lingual buddy] I soon learned that bachelor number one was a 24-year-old, Italian speaking man who worked in his parent’s pizzeria.  Thinking I could get by with my Eng-talian, he and I decided to take a walk for some get-to-know-each-other-and-possibly-smooch time.  

Under normal circumstances, I’m usually able to scale the language barrier with gestures and context clues, but in this case I was finding it extremely difficult.  He was shy and awkward and seemed to ignore everything I was saying.  Searching for an explanation, I spotted a forgotten vital that stood to greatly impede our progress:  He was wearing a hearing-aid.  Now it made sense---he could barely hear me, let alone understand me.  Nice Alex convinced me that this could NOT be a deal-breaker; it’d be cruel to exclude a man just because of something like that.  Suddenly, bachelor number one stopped me on the deck, looked me in the eye and brokenly solicited one request: 

“I no.. umm… mm, love wo-man… ever.  Umm, mm, you-ah… teach?”  He slid a condom out of his pocket and looked at me with hope in his inexperienced, virginal eyes.

“Voglio restare come amici.”  Write that one down girls… it means “let’s just be friends.”

THREE COINS

The most profoundly magical evening in Rome was spent at the Trevi Fountain.

Built in 1629, this fountain is a crowning achievement of Roman art and ambition.  But the popularity of this titanic Italian icon is fueled not just by it's size or architecture, but rather its legend.     

To throw one coin into the fountain will guarantee your return to Rome.  

If it's a new romance you seek, you must part with two coins.  

But, for those pining for marriage (or sometimes, more appropriately, divorce) you must buy your wish by tossing three coins into the mystical water.

So, how many coins would I throw?  One coin was a no-brainer---who wouldn't want to come back to Rome?  And a new romance---that's easy too.  I was on vacation; everyone wants a little romance on vacation.  But marriage?  With my track record (as you've followed with excruciating detail), a happy marriage sometimes felt like an impossible, unreachable pipe-dream---one I wasn't eve sure I wanted to try for.

So, did I want to admit that marriage was on my to-do list?  

I looked around, took a deep breath, and tossed three coins into the water.

I blame the vino.

A SINGLE GIRL IN ROME

A common FAQ:  “Where the hell have you been, Alex??”

My answer:  Absolutely everywhere.

This August, Amanda and I bon voyaged to Italy, France and Spain.  It was my first trip abroad and we decided to make it count!  Readers, it was the single most magical experience of my life.  There were meals.  There were sites.  And yes---there were men.

***

As I opened my eyes, I was horrified to find a dark hotel room. 

“Oh no, we overslept!” I cried.

Amanda shot up, disoriented, her covers flying in every direction.  She pulled the nightstand clock closer to her face and rubbed her eyes.
“What does this say??” she asked, exasperated. 

“10:30!”

“Oh no…” she sighed.  “We’re going to miss the last train.”   

It was our final night in Rome and [as part of Crazy Alex’s anal retentive ‘mustseeeverythingthereistoseewhileinEurope’ plan] we were originally slated to see the Spanish steps.  

 “Aren’t you going to get up?”  I asked, fumbling through clothes and fluffing my hair.  Amanda just sat there thinking.

“You know, Al.  I have a better idea.”

Moments later, we were in an over-priced Taxi bound for the Tiver River.

“Remember what the tour-guide said about this place?” she asked.

“I’ve been told so many things this week...”

“This is where the nightlife is!  There’ll be tons of clubs and people our age.  Ya know… we haven’t partied ONCE since we got here.”

It was true.  I was so consumed with cramming every bit of knowledge into this vacation that I completely forgot to be on vacation.  Though I was saddened to miss an important historical site, I reluctantly made the exchange for a night out.

But---of course we couldn’t just party… we’d have to make it interesting.  So, over a light dinner we conspired to conduct a little social experiment: we’d pretend not to speak any Italian in order hear what the natives truly thought of us.

Bouncing flirtatiously along the many bridges, our experiment was off to a running start.  We spoke loudly, in blatant English, sprinkling the occasional southern twang for some extra American charm.  In response, a choir of clueless men commented openly about our attire and anatomy.  Not only was this fun, but we were instantly able to separate the romantics from the perverts.  It was genius!     

We soon found a chic hookah bar and struck up a friendly conversation with Francesco, Fat Fabrizio, Skinny Fabrizio, and Daniel.  Unlike some of the other men, this quartet of gentlemen spoke softly and respectfully, admiring our beauty with class.

“I DO declare!  Just how American do we look?”  I asked.  (A first-time hookah-smoker, I got a little more southern with each toke.)

Pointing first to Amanda, Francesco replied “You-ah beautyy ees very, very Mediterranean.  You-ah could leeve en Roma, no-ah problem!”

“And me?” I asked.

“You-ah beautyy ees very, very… uhh… como se dice… difficult to… look at.”

 

I stared at him in disbelief. 

“MY BEAUTY IS DIFFICULT TO LOOK AT?!”  The southern belle was gone.

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOO NO!” Skinny Fabrizio leapt to his feet and ran toward me.  “You-ah beautyy ees bea-ooo-ti-ful!  Sexy!  So Sexy!”  He sat down next to me shyly.

“You-ah beautyy ees difficult to place” Francesco corrected himself.

“Well… alright then.”  I replied.

Despite his blunder, we soon learned that Francesco worked for the President of Italy.  He was multi-lingual, intelligent and well-travelled.  After conversing with him for close to an hour, Amanda and I were simply enchanted!  When he offered to give us an evening tour of Rome we happily accepted.

Francesco and Skinny Fabrizio took us to every stunning panoramic view in Rome.  We could see everything---the entire landscape illuminated beneath the gorgeous Italian sky.  But by now, Skinny Fabrizio had attached himself to me like a leech.  If there’s one thing I learned in Rome, it’s this:  fending off men in Italy is as pointless as swatting mosquitoes on a camping trip.  They’re everywhere, they’re persistent, and eventually when you’re not looking… they’re going to bite you on the neck.   

Finally, at our third location, Francesco pointed down. 

“Those are-ah the Spanish Steps.”

At that exact moment, I looked up at the night sky and saw my very first shooting star.  What an incredible memory!  Just then I realized, sometimes if you let go, you'll get everything you want.

 

“I did get to see them,” I gasped.  "Oh, let’s get a picture!!”

Skinny Fabrizio finally detached himself, whipped out his phone and asked to have a picture of just me.

I was puzzled.  “Why would you want a picture of me?”

“For-ah, uhh, remembering.”

“But… why?”

Skinny Fabrizio thought for a moment, looked up and yelled “BECAUSE I LOVE-AH YOU!”

What a hilarious end to a fabulous day!

I'M BACK, BITCHES!

Due to my lengthy hiatus, curiosity over my current dating situation has permeated my entire existence.  It seems that both coworkers and friends alike have been experiencing severe “LABOR” withdrawals.  Symptoms include [but are not exclusive to] dry heaves, cold sweats, and compulsive dating activity.  Thus far---there is no known rehab.

As I’m sure you’ve gathered, this blog is the result of a very personal journey---not just to find the love of another person, but also [and more importantly] the love of myself.  Each week it became increasingly difficult to endure my “critics,” and for my thinness of skin I owe you an apology.  BUT, just because my broadcasts were back-burnered does not mean my love life was too; and [if you’ll take me back lovers] I’d like to give this thing another go.

My first blog back will include some funny stories from my trip abroad.  I hope you’ll stay tuned and enjoy!!!! 

BETWEEN ME AND DELIVERANCE, PART I

Perched atop a tall barstool, I awaited Amanda’s arrival.  We had set out to have a fun girl’s evening filled with drinks, dancing and perhaps some harmless flirtation.  Instead, Amanda was late and I---lost in thought.

“Maybe I should accept Music Man’s invitation” I pondered, stirring my vodka cranberry.  When he asked me out earlier that week, Nice Alex nearly leapt at the chance.  But as tempting as it is to “fling” with the same manic musician I always fall in love with, I am on a mission to improve my picker.  It is a personal decision based on more facts than I can share with you---but please trust me, readers---it’s the right call.

Nice Alex baulked of course, so I sent her to the naughty step for a time out.     

Having come to terms with my decision, I leaned in to take another sip.  But I was suddenly shaken when two men [quite literally] descended upon me. 

To my left was a short stocky ginger in a red cut-off T.  His eyelids were burdened with beer, and it seemed to take all his energy to slur a drink offer.  I declined by pointing to my already purchased libation, but that didn’t stop him from offering a second and third time.   

To my right was a thin man in a […wait for it…] grey cut-off T.  As his lips parted I became simultaneously aware of both his breath on my neck and the toothlessness of his smile. 

Did I mention I was upstate?

And you wonder why I don’t write fiction!!

Mere moments later, an alleluia chorus began to sing; a bright light poured through the bar door; and I looked up to see Amanda prancing in.  I swear I love that girl, but I had never been so glad to see her in my entire life.

Though we immediately relocated to the other side of the bar, the Tweedles (Drunk and Dumb) were miraculously able to transcend their intoxication and hone in on our coordinates.  Amanda (a little more vocal than I) asked them to give us some space.  When that didn’t happen…

“Al, maybe we should go check out Handshakes.”

“Handshakes!  Grea, we’ll definnnnitely go wit yous!”  chimed Tweedle Drunk.       

Sad but true, we were in a classic trap:  Two young women trying not to start a problem, and two inebriated men with no concept of their own creep factor.  

Unfortunately, most women will find themselves in this situation at least once in their lives.  

Amanda retreated to the bathroom while I remained to watch our drinks and guard our bags.  Just when I thought staying behind was the wrong choice, a familiar man walked into the bar.  He was tall, and strutted with some authority; his big brown eyes surveying the scene.  Instinctively, I scooted closer. 

I breathed a sigh of relief when we struck up a light conversation---perhaps now the Tweedles would mosey on.  

But just then…

“Hello my friend!” Amanda greeted, returning from the powder room. 

“We know him?!”  I thought. “Even better!” 

At that moment, I remembered who this person was.  This was Airforce Guy…a military man whom Amanda had dated a few months before.  I heard stories of their intrigues and though I wasn’t sure how I felt about them as a couple---I knew I was okay with him standing between us and Deliverance.    

We’re safe! I thought.  A military guy who has loyalty to Amanda will surely be able to intimidate these hicks.  But like most things in my awkward life---it couldn't be that simple.

To Be Continued…

RED FLAGS

Summer has officially arrived, readers… and nothing rings in the season better than a New England Clambake!  This past weekend my dear friend Karen graciously hosted a smorgasbord of epic proportions.  She and her boyfriend literally prepared 30 pounds of muscles, 20 pounds of potatoes, hamburgers, hotdogs, lobster tails and some side dishes […in case we got puckish.]  For dessert we had cookies and pies of all assortments...  And fret not; we had plenty to wash it down with!

Before the gluttony commenced however, Karen informed me that there was someone I should meet. 

“He’s an AMAZING musician, Al… seriously I think you guys would click.”

Grumble-Grumble-Grumble-and-other-I-don’t-want-to-be-set-up-sounds

“NOT LIKE THAT!” she assured me, “I just think you would make some good music together, that’s all.”

Sure, Sure I thought.  I could feel the cynicism coursing through my veins.  I just wanted to eat and drink and visit with old friends…NOT be bothered with impressing a total stranger. 

Well…that was until I saw him.

Tall, broad and handsome:  in walked Music Man clutching a guitar.

By now I’m sure you’ve realized what a sucker I am for the artistically inclined.  The talent, confidence and subtle [I’m-a-mess-but-don’t-worry-I’ll-just-write-a-song-about-it] mystique seem to draw me in like a masochistic moth to the flame.  All in all however, I was resisting the weakness in my knees.  Sure he was cute and sweet and funny and friendly and we sounded really good together… but c’mon… I wasn’t sold.

“So who’s your favorite singer?” he asked.

“Gotta be Sarah Vaughan” I answered, anticipating the normal I don’t know who that is reaction.

“Oh my God, she’s amazing isn’t she??” he shot back.

TIMBER!!!

Before I knew it, it was 5 AM and we were still talking.  At this point, I was about ready to buy that moth a fire-proof vest and be done with it.  But suddenly, all I could think about was HOW MUCH he reminded me of my most recent ex.

My most recent ex is a talented musician in a newly disbanded group.  It was a big love filled with laughter and compatibility, but we were ultimately doomed by the emotional issues at play.  That double-edged sword of creativity had beheaded us… and for the first time all evening I was able to see the striking parallel.

Of course, you wouldn’t know it by Nice Alex!  She breezed right in and chalked this red flag up to fearful nonsense.  “This man DESERVES a chance” she asserted.  "He's not your ex and he has nothing to do with him."

Am I excited to have met someone with SO much potential?  Of course!  But still, in my gut I wonder “How serious is a red flag?”