He didn't speak English and I don't speak Italian, so we struck up a desultory conversation in fractured French. You could tell from his face that the decision had been the right one. This was a man who smiled more often than he scowled. Then he asked what I did for a living, and why he'd seen me wandering about Ravenna on my own. A lawyer, he said, with a thoughtful nod.
Most people do.
That was when he did his guardian angel thing. To my horror, I felt my throat constrict and my eyes fill with tears. I hadn't said anything about being unhappy. But as I was hailing a cab, the old man called out that if I ever returned to Ravenna, I should look him up for a cup of coffee. I could find him most weekends in the piazza , at a caf , with his friends.