Carlo

I'm meeting Carlo near the Academia, the museum where David hangs out in all his homo-erotic glory. Even though I'm a good fifteen minutes early, he's already sprawled over a table at the cafe/bar when I walk up.

"Ciao," I say.

"Yeah. don't order a beer, for christsakes. I don't want people thinking I hang out with touristi."

"I don't look like a tourist?"

He squints. "If you keep your mouth shut, you might get by. Order a cafe. No, let me."

Actually, I want water. It's about 90 degrees out and I'm sweating buckets.

"Better than beer, I guess." He launches into a tirade about how Florence is being overrun by tourists. Like I couldn't see that coming.

Carlo talks like a Florence native, but he's actually an American. He's lived in Europe since the late '70s or '80s. He claims to have been in advertising, but all his stories have to do with late Cold War spying. They also generally involve an "f-in commie scum," though every so often he'll sprinkle in an "honorable Rusky." Maybe he really was in advertising; most ex-spies don't disparage their old opponents quite so badly.

He's retired, though he's not sixty yet. At least I think he's retired; ask too many personal questions and all you get is a deeper scowl in reply.

"The Ukranians are the worst," he says, continuing his anti-tourist tirade. "Throwing all their black market money away. Money they probably stole from the Russian -- "

Carlo stops mid-sentence. I follow his eyes to a pair of slim young women standing near the door, looking for a table. They're wearing silk dresses that stop about mid-thigh and look painted on.

"Tourists?" I ask.

"Ukranians." Carlo gets up. "Scusi."

He walks over to them, says something in Italian, then switches to another language - I'm guessing Ukranian. They laugh, and walk over to our table.

"We're going to the Acadamia," he says. "Interested?"

It's not the museum he's asking about. I beg off. Which is just fine with Carlo. He winks.

Later, he sends me a text.

"Touristi. Gotta love them."