I was on a Mediterranean cruise with my wife. We’d had a huge fight the night before we docked in Civitavecchia, so in the morning I disembarked alone and took the train to Rome.  

I had about six hours to come back to the port.  

In an hour I was in Rome.  With the help of a map, I set a course that would take me through the most famous city landmarks.

I was staring at the Fountain of the Four Rivers in Piazza Navona when somebody squeezed my arm.  I turned around, ready to push the thief away.  

My eyes opened wide when I saw the woman’s big smile.  

“Karen! Karen?” My cheeks felt hot.

“Yes.  It’s me!” She opened her arms, and we hugged.

“Incredible! What a coincidence,” she said. “What are you doing here? Are you staying in Rome? For how long? When did you arrive? Are you alone?”

I was holding her arms in silence, looking at her. 

I hadn’t seen her in years, maybe forty. 

Time had been kind to her. There were a few wrinkles, but her smile was still luminous.

“You look great,” I said. “It’s been years…”

“I know, many.  You didn’t answer me.  Are you here for a few days?  Are you alone?”

“No, no.”  I looked at my watch. “I have to take the train back to Civitavecchia in about four hours.  I’m on a cruise.  And you?”

“I’ve been living in Rome for about forty years.  I’m Italian.”  She laughed.

“Are you working here?” I asked.

“Yes… but not right now.  Come.  I can give you a great city tour.”

She hooked her arm in mine and we walked away.  

She told me about herself, her family, her marriage to an Italian man who eventually left her, and her life in Rome.  I asked her about her parents and brothers.

“My parents passed away,” she told me. “And my brothers are in the States, have families and are very successful.”

We walked by a restaurant.  

“I’m hungry, ” I said, “and we are in Rome.  We must have lunch in a trattoria.”

“Of course.  I’ve been here.  It’s good, and it doesn’t take forever to be served.”

We sat down and ordered.

Karen asked me about my life, and I told her.  

The food arrived, and the conversation flowed naturally.

“It’s been forty-five years,” I said, looking her in the eyes. 

She thought for a moment.  

“Even more. Do you remember anything?” she asked with a smile, looking at her plate.

“Of course.  I remember when we started; I remember when you left, and the couple of years in between.”

“The sunsets?” Karen asked.

“Unforgettable!  The sunsets, the evenings, and the dawns.”

We talked through lunch and beyond.

She looked at her watch.  “You have to go.  I’ll walk you to the train station.”

We walked arm in arm through an older residential neighborhood of cobblestone streets flanked by four- and five-story buildings painted in ochre, peeling in many places.

“I live there,” she said, pointing to a third-story window.

“Nice.  This place has a lot of charm,” I said.  

“Come inside,” she whispered.  “I’ll show you how a real Italian lives.”

* * *

The Sun was projecting long shadows when we came out again.

“You missed your boat,” Karen said.

I shrugged. “I’ll take the train to Livorno and meet the ship there when it arrives tomorrow morning.”

“Your wife must be very worried.”

I hadn’t thought of my wife.  “She’ll survive.”

We took a taxi to the train station, and Karen asked the driver to wait.

We got off, and I held her hands.  “Will I see you again?” I asked.

“In another forty-five years, perhaps? Somewhere in the world, out of the blue?”  

We laughed.  

A quick hug and a kiss. 

She wiped a tear and said, “I have to go,” and jumped back in the cab.

Since the plan was to visit Florence while the ship was docked in Livorno, I bought a ticket to Florence. I would worry the next day about traveling to Livorno.

The rocking motion of the train made me sleepy, and the memories of the last few hours turned into dreams.  

I woke with a start when the voice over the loudspeaker announced the arrival in Florence.

I needed a hotel, but first I needed dinner, and after a short while I found a fairly crowded pizzeria.  I sat down and ordered.  While I waited, my mind wandered. I saw Karen again, and I relived the past few hours, minute by minute.

As the waiter put the pizza on the table, a hand touched my shoulder.

I turned around and stared open-mouthed.

“Karen?”  I stood up.

“This is incredible!” she almost shouted. “It’s you!  After all these years.  What are you doing here? Are you on a tour?”

I shook my head.  The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

“Don’t tell me that you have moved to Italy…” she added.

I was speechless. 

She was Karen, the same woman I had been with only a few hours ago.  

The face hadn’t changed, but she was dressed a bit more casually, her voice had a higher pitch, and she seemed restless and full of nervous energy.

“But… We just met in Rome,” I managed to say after we sat down. I motioned to the waiter to bring her a place setting and something to drink.

“Rome?  I haven’t been in Rome in years.  Tell me about you.”  Karen munched on a slice of pizza.

I said a few things.  

“Aren’t you eating?” She asked me.

I wasn’t hungry anymore. 

She started to talk about herself. After a while, I calmed down, and we had a real conversation.  We talked about the past, the short time we had been together, how life had separated us, and how each one had taken his own path, very different from the grandiose plans we had once made.

How she had moved to Florence when marrying an Italian, who eventually left her.  She loved Italy, so she had stayed, and by now she considered herself Italian.

She was more relaxed. After a moment of quiet, while she ate and I just looked at her in disbelief, she said, “This is a dream come true.”

“What?   You haven’t seen me in more than forty years.”  I didn’t know what else to say, or think, so I played along.

“I know,” she said, “but yesterday I dreamt that we were meeting… at night… in a restaurant… here in Florence.”

Now I was sweating. I took a deep breath and told her that I needed a hotel for the night.

“No problem.  I’ll help you find one.”

We left the pizzeria.  She slipped her arm through mine, and we walked slowly.  The air was bracing; I felt better.  The streets were almost deserted.

“See that building?” She asked, pointing to a dark red one that once had been elegant.

“Yes?”

“I live there, on the third floor,” she said, looking at me. “Would you like to see how a real Italian lives?”  

My heart was beating fast as I followed her.

* * *

“Do you have time?” Karen asked me in the morning.

“Yes.  I have to be on board at six o’clock at the latest, or I’ll miss the ship again. I should get on the train by four.”

“Good.  We have enough time to see Florence.  Come, I’ll be your private tour guide.”

It was four o’clock when we came back to the apartment and six when she remarked that I had missed the boat again.

“It doesn’t matter.  I’ll take the train to Marseille, and I’ll be there tomorrow morning.  I can sleep on the train.”

“Won’t your wife be worried?”

“She’ll survive.”

We took a taxi to the train station.

“When will we meet again?” I asked.

“In another forty years… or maybe earlier if I have another dream.”  We both laughed. A quick hug and a kiss, and she left.

* * *

Now I was on a train to Paris.  I had decided that I didn’t want to go back to the cruise.  The trip would take a few hours, giving me time to think.  I had slept a couple of hours, and afterward, in a liminal sleep/awake state, I was going over the events of the last forty-eight hours.  Was it real?  Had I been dreaming?  Were Rome Karen and Florence Karen the same person?  Of course they were!  We had the same common past. But…

I was shivering.  I took several deep breaths until the trembling stopped.

We arrived at the Gare de Lyon, and I headed for the tourist information kiosk to get a map and some brochures.  There were a few people ahead of me, so I took a booklet from the rack and browsed it while waiting in line.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I turned around and faced a smiling woman.

“Karen!”