Storytime: Forced on a date in Rome
If you’ve never been to Italy, there’s one thing you should know: Italian men are very direct. I’d heard stories from female friends who went to Italy and got swept up in the charm of their waiters, while my male friends couldn’t get a date to save their lives. Me? I thought I’d be somewhere in between—maybe find my own little Roman romance, like in the movies. I even tossed a coin into the Trevi Fountain, just in case. (Spoiler: I should have asked for a refund.)
I’d spent the whole morning wandering through the city, soaking in the architecture, the history, the sheer beauty of it all. It was magical — until I realized my phone battery was hanging on by a thread.
This was before I owned a portable charger (arguably the single most important travel accessory), so I decided to head back to my hostel. But hunger got the better of me, and I stopped at a small restaurant just a block away from where I was staying.
I’d spent the whole morning wandering through the city, soaking in the architecture, the history, the sheer beauty of it all. It was magical — until I realized my phone battery was hanging on by a thread. This was before I owned a portable charger (arguably the single most important travel accessory), so I decided to head back to my hostel. But hunger got the better of me, and I stopped at a small restaurant just a block away from where I was staying.
I sat outside, ordered a pizza, and barely glanced at my waiter. I was busy squeezing the last drops of life out of my phone to call a friend. But this guy was persistent.
If you’ve ever been to Europe, you know getting a server’s attention can be a sport in itself. Not with him. Within minutes, he’d brought me water, olive oil, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes… basically the entire contents of the kitchen. (I half expected him to roll out a wood-fire oven next.) And every single time, he winked.
At one point, he even brought me a small blue plastic heart. (subtle)
When I’d finished eating and my phone finally died, I asked for the bill. He told me to pay inside.
Fine. But as soon as I stood up, he hooked his arm through mine and walked me to the counter. I thanked him, turned to leave… and suddenly, my arm was hooked again. (Somehow, I’d been upgraded from “customer” to “plus-one.”)
At one point, he even brought me a small blue plastic heart. (subtle)
When I’d finished eating and my phone finally died, I asked for the bill. He told me to pay inside. Fine. But as soon as I stood up, he hooked his arm through mine and walked me to the counter. I thanked him, turned to leave… and suddenly, my arm was hooked again. (Somehow, I’d been upgraded from “customer” to “plus-one.”)
He announced he was on his break, guided me to another table, and asked what kind of wine I liked. Before I could protest, he’d poured me a glass and sat down with his own plate of food.
It wasn’t exactly a riveting “date.” He’d take a bite of his food, I’d sip my wine, and we’d sit there in awkward silence. Eventually, I gave in and asked him his name. He told me, then asked mine, and immediately went back to eating. After a while, I tried again and asked his age. He told me, asked for mine, and… went right back to
eating. This little cycle repeated a few times — me making the effort, him answering, and then happily returning to his meal.
Then, as if on cue from some rom-com director, a man walked by selling roses. Naturally, my “date” bought me one. (At this point, I was just waiting for the marriage proposal.)
It wasn’t exactly a riveting “date.” He’d take a bite of his food, I’d sip my wine, and we’d sit there in awkward silence. Eventually, I gave in and asked him his name. He told me, then asked mine, and immediately went back to eating. After a while, I tried again and asked his age. He told me, asked for mine, and… went right back to eating. This little cycle repeated a few times — me making the effort, him answering, and then happily returning to his meal.
Then, as if on cue from some rom-com director, a man walked by selling roses. Naturally, my “date” bought me one. (At this point, I was just waiting for the marriage proposal.)
Eventually, he slid his phone toward me with his Instagram page open, silently waiting for me to type mine in. (Yes, I did it. Yes, I regretted it.) Then, without warning, he got up and left — it took me a few minutes to realize his break was over.
As I was leaving, he stopped me one last time: “Meet me here at 9 p.m. We go out.”
I said “okay” and walked away, fully intending not to show up.
That night he called me five times and sent me his location. He proceeded to do the same the following day.
Thankfully, after that second day, he left me alone. It wasn’t the Roman love I was promised by tossing a coin into the Trevi Fountain, but it was definitely a story worth remembering.