The evening already felt promising at the entrance. A small Italian flag fluttered on Marilyn’s door, and as I stepped inside, the bartender greeted me with a cheerful “Buonasera”, as if I’d just walked into a Venetian café. Every guest was handed a glass of prosecco – “A gift from the house, signore” – while Italian tunes floated through the air. By the time the chorus came around, half the room was already singing along.
I sank into one of the dimly lit tables facing the stage, where a black-haired, olive-skinned girl was moving lazily – yet with just enough intent to keep every pair of eyes fixed on her. The regulars at the bar nodded to the beat as if Italian night was their weekly ritual – and I suspect it actually was.
The girl who later joined me came with a larger Portuguese group and introduced herself as Gina. A classic Mediterranean beauty: dark brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a smile that carried both “we’re here to have fun” and “careful, I might get you into trouble.”
“So, do you like these Italian nights?” she asked, sipping her prosecco.
“More than I probably should,” I grinned. “In Italy, something always happens that either makes me shake my head afterward… or smile for days.”
“Have you been there often?” she leaned in.
“Too often,” I laughed. “Though there was one trip that topped them all.”
Gina rested her chin on her hand, watching me with that look of someone who knew this wasn’t about a church visit. I leaned back, letting the prosecco and the music pull me into that old summer…
It all started when a few friends and I headed down near Rimini, staying in a little apartment. The first evening we just strolled along the seaside promenade, but the next night we ended up in a beach club. Every second track was Eros Ramazzotti, the rest were irresistible dance songs that pulled the girls straight onto the floor.
That’s where I met Laura – long, reddish-brown hair, green eyes, sun-kissed skin. I waited until she ordered an Aperol Spritz at the bar, then approached with a “Ciao bella.” She laughed, switched to English immediately – probably sensing my Italian vocabulary was about three words.
The night rushed by: dancing, laughter, drinks flowing, and that closeness where you stop hearing the music, only her voice. Later, when the crowd had scattered, we walked down to the beach together. The sand was still warm, the water lapping softly at our feet. We sat and talked about everything – favorite foods, movies, and of course, why Italian men adore Hungarian women… and the other way around.
Then she kissed me. Not tentative, not testing – but the kind of kiss that carries the whole Mediterranean summer with it. We stayed until dawn, and when I finally returned to the apartment, the guys just shook their heads:
“Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t vanish with a girl on every trip!”
I wanted to see her again, but the next day on the beach I spotted her with another man – and their body language left no doubt they hadn’t just met. Our eyes met once more, and that was it.
“So,” I finished, back in Marilyn’s half-light, “when I heard the Italian music here tonight, Laura and that summer instantly came back.”
Gina smiled and leaned closer.
“You know, I have a few stories like that too… but I’ll only tell them over another prosecco.”
“Then let’s get another,” I said, signaling to the bar.
The music had shifted into a lively Italian funk, a different girl now commanding the stage, but Gina stayed beside me. Glasses refilled, and we’d reached that moment of the night when you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.
At Marilyn’s Italian night, there was no need to travel all the way to Rimini – just a glass of prosecco, a beautiful woman, and the right song to relive every memory of a long-ago summer in Italy. And who knows… maybe a few years from now, I’ll be telling someone else about this night, just the same way.
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