This is the final episode of Dates Gone Bad although this really wasn’t a date, more of a chance meeting that led to a date, that led to a proposal, that led to a lovely lovely wedding.
I’m kind of sad that my dating era is over because although I’ve had some great ones, most of them have been pretty shoddy and therefore highly amusing!
Anyway, I thought I would try to end this little series on a high note by telling you how I met my husband. I’m kind of setting the scene for the intro to the English/Italian mix that we’ve got going on.
I had been travelling with friends for over a year and when I had exhausted every last available penny, it was time to come home. As it was a last-minute decision, I had to give notice to the tenants that lived in my stamp sized apartment.
In the meantime I went to stay at a friend’s house whilst she was still in deepest darkest Peru.
One day, after trudging through every job agency known to man, I opened the front door only to be blinded by a cerise pink hue shining out from the living room. I was then deafened by screams, shouts and raucous laughter. What on earth was going on?
There he was. All tanned and dark, speaking at a billion decibels and waving his hands all over the place. There were ‘Madonnas’ and ‘mamma Mias’ being thrown in at any given opportunity. That explained it, he was Italian.
I had never been to Italy. I was never interested in it. I had no intention of going until I was at least a pensioner. There were far too many exotic countries to go to first and Italy was way down my list of priority visits.
He must be gay, I thought. Italian and gay. Loud, Italian and gay! Great, as if my day hadn’t been hectic enough. Only a gay, Italian gay man, would command that amount of attention in an empty room! I couldn’t be bothered with it.
I failed miserably to ignore the din coming from downstairs so went to introduce myself. “Ciaoooo! I’ma Gian Lucaaaa” he bellowed as though I was about ten miles away from him. (His name isn’t Gian Luca by the way, but it is something that requires a bit of a hand wave when pronounced!).
Once I had reassured him that I wasnt yet ready for a hearing aid, and he turned the volume down a notch, he was actually quite a nice guy – and not gay at all. How did I come to know he wasn’t gay?
Well, he was at the house visiting a girl he knew. She was living there. She was from Rome and she was extremely fortunate in the lady bump area. Gian Luca practically had his head buried in her cavernous cleavage for the best part of an hour whilst she was gossiping about someone they knew. A gay man wouldn’t do that, right? He barely came up for air!! No, definitely straight! Cerise pink, lots of it, but definitely straight!
Eventually, the girl from Rome took her chest to bed and I stayed up until the wee hours discovering that Gian Luca was actually a really nice guy. Nice. I hadn’t opted for “nice” men before but something about him was luring me in.
Before I knew it, it was 3am and Gian Luca had to leave. As I walked him to the door, he kissed me on both cheeks, rested his massive hand on my tiny shoulder and said “so’a I pick’a you up’a at’a eight I clock’a?”.
For what? When? The look on my face must have appeared confused. “You’a not’a doin’ anthin’a Saturday night’a eh? Then’a I pick’a you up’a, be’a ready, we ‘ava nice ‘a dinner. Ciao Bella!!”.
And with that he threw on his helmet, jumped on his Vespa and sped off into the night, his cerise pink t-shirt still glowing in the distance!
Come back next week to find out how the Italian nearly strangled me and gave me frost bite on our first date! Nothing ever goes according to plan!