An Italian Stranger
“Don’t drink the water”, I said to my two daughters. It was our first visit to Rome, and the four of us- my husband and myself, and our two teenage daughters were standing around a little iron fountain outside the Forum, unsure whether the water was safe to drink. It had been a warm day and we were all thirsty.
“Puoi bere quest l’aqua,” came a friendly voice from behind us.
We turned to see a big man with a huge grin. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if he had been standing beside us the whole time. His white T-shirt strained across his stomach, and his shorts were at least one size too small. A true Roman, with olive skin, dark hair and expressive eyes.
He looked at our confused faces, realised we didn’t speak Italian and said,
“This is pure drinking water.”
“Are you sure? I asked. “We wouldn’t drink from a fountain in Australia.”
The man cupped his hands under the stream and drank deeply. The girls, thirsty and curious, followed his example.
“My name is Gianni. I live in Rome” he said with a grin that reached his eyes.
The five of us walked to a nearby bench and sat in the cool of the early evening. We swapped life stories and laughed about his anecdotes.
After an hour or so he said, “Let me take you to dinner and tell you about my city. There is a little place just around the corner that serves real Italian food.”
He walked with an unhurried confidence, talking with his whole face and both hands as we made our way through the cobbled streets. We quickly learned that Gianni loved food. He spoke about it with passion, and it showed in the wonderful folds of his full skin and the laugh that boomed straight from his stomach. Behind us, the ruins glowed in the late afternoon light, long shadows stretching across the ancient columns.
“This will be the best carbonara you have ever eaten,” Gianni promised. My husband raised his eyebrows. The trattoria had no English menu — just a chalkboard in Italian, a few tables, and the smell of garlic drifting from the kitchen. As we settled into bowls of silky pasta, we heard church bells, scooters, and the clatter of plates. The food was delicious. We talked long into the evening, with Gianni telling us the secrets of Rome: The best view of the Forum at the Capitoline Hill at sunset, making sure to visit the Pantheon early in the day, the unmissable Borghese and the Vatican Museums. And no cappuccino after eleven.
“Let Rome happen to you”, he said. “Feel it in the stones, smell the air and take in the history.”
I remember watching him that night – the way he leaned in when he spoke looking us straight into our eyes. The way he always held his fork ready for more food and the way the waiters greeted him with familiarity. The trattoria felt like his home and we were his guests.
By the end of the night, we promised to keep in touch. He had been a stranger, but somehow he made us feel like old friends.
A few years later, we returned to Rome with four fellow travellers. Gianni invited us to his favourite restaurant for dinner. We followed him through back streets to a wooden door that opened into a dim, warm room lined with old photos of Rome and dusty wine bottles.
Gianni was clearly well known here. He was bigger than I remembered — broader, softer around the middle — but just as full of life. We sat around a long wooden table not knowing what to expect.
The first course arrived: small plates of fried zucchini and artichokes. Then came two pasta dishes — cacio e pepe and amatriciana — rich, peppery, and impossible to stop eating. He watched us with delight urging us to take “just one more bite.” But by the end of the pasta course our stomachs were full.
“Next time you come,” Gianni said, laughing, “you can eat the other half of the meal.”
We all breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve from eating.
Two years later we did return to Rome – and ate the second half.
Our next visit came with an invitation to his apartment for dinner at nine o’clock. We were to meet his husband, Georgio, for the first time.
We walked through Trastevere’s narrow streets, found his apartment and buzzed the brass button with his name. He sounded surprised that we had arrived an hour early.
We climbed the stone stairs, worn smooth by centuries of feet, and knocked. The door opened.
Gianni stood before us in nothing but his underpants. White, cotton underpants.
He had clearly not expected company for another hour. We stared at him, speechless. Then he laughed — that great booming roar — and ushered us inside without a hint of embarrassment.
“The Bellinis are in the freezer,” he said. “Please sit while I get dressed.”
We sat around the table, waiting for those Bellinis to appear. We waited. And waited. Eventually they arrived, frosty and sweet, and were quaffed down in seconds.
Dinner unfolded slowly: carpaccio, fried artichokes, pasta, roast quail, and tiramisu. We ate until we couldn’t eat another bite. When we finally left at one in the morning, Gianni stood in the doorway, filling the space while waving us goodbye.
“We will do this again another day,” he said, glowing with satisfaction.
We promised we would be back.
A few years passed. We continued travelling but never returned to Rome.
One Sunday afternoon, the message came. Simple. Blunt. The way bad news often is.
A heart attack.
Sudden.
Unfair.
It didn’t seem possible that a man with so much life could simply disappear.
The memories remain — too much food, a laugh that filled every room, and a friendship that began with a stranger at a fountain.