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I knew the minute I walked through the door I was in trouble. For some, the thought of being clad in suitcase-wrinkled clothes, unkempt hair and dark circles might deter them from shamelessly trying to catch the attention of the cute Italian manager, but clearly I was beyond shame. As he tangoed around the bustling crowd of the Florence restaurant, the brief flash of baby blues from beneath his chestnut devil-may-care hair, I reminded myself to keep breathing. My mom discovered the source of my exorcist-child neck swivel. "He's cute." I muttered something incoherent in agreement. After a meal filled with red wine and wandering eyes, we made our way toward the exit only to be interrupted by none other than the beautiful stranger. "Serg, your waiter, thanks you for your kindness and asked to take a picture with you." His blue eyes pierced through mine. I had no idea why I was taking a photo with the sweet, saucer-eyed boy, but our European excursion had been teeming with so many unexplainable encounters that I just chocked it up to adventure. No matter what our Florentine days had in store for us, we stopped into our favorite restaurant for a quick bite or a nightcap without fail. While Serg was not there, the beautiful stranger always was, welcoming us to their favorite spot for people watching, limoncello sipping and eye candy. One evening, "Baby Blues" handed his "favorite customer" the restaurant's business card-a thoughtful memento for our last night here. I held the weighted paper between my fingers and thanked him. I had gotten better about completing full sentences in his presence. The morning we flew back to London I pounced to life before dawn approached. I left my mom to her packing as I wandered through the piazza. The whole city was asleep. I walked past our favorite restaurant for the last time. It was no longer bustling with crowds and the flurry of chatter. Our daily sanctuary was a temporary ghost town. With every sip of my cappuccino, I breathed in as much of Florence as I could. Months later as I arranged and rearranged my travel memorabilia into something resembling art, I found it among the pile of subway tickets and museum brochures-the business card. In attempting to find the perfect spot for the pièce de résistance, something caught my eye. Something unfamiliar. A handwritten note on the back, "I'm off at 11. Come back alone for a glass of wine."