I have always considered myself a very open-minded person. Ask any one of my friends and they will tell you that I am the first person to go up to a complete stranger and strike up a conversation.

And when my friends decided that a trip to Mystic Lake the night before a huge psych final could really only help me focus more, I only hesitated for a second before hopping in the car and heading north to gamble my stress away.

So when I arrived in Florence a little less than two months ago, I set aside any preconceived notions I might have had about life outside the United States and vowed not to let anything get in the way of taking advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Little did I know how much my open-mindedness would be tested in one chance encounter with a fast-talking man in a polyester suit.

I met Spike on a Monday night in a tiny bar in the heart of Florence. I’ve found that in this town it’s pretty common to go out any night of the week and find most of the bars packed with people looking for a nice cold beer, good music and some new friends.

On this particular night my friends and I were just looking to relax after a long day of classes, so we met for a drink at our favorite little Irish pub near the Duomo.

We were sipping our Coronas enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and amusing ourselves by reading the hundreds of inscriptions that adorn the walls when he walked in.

The first thing I noticed was what a snappy dresser he was. Clad in an all-white polyester leisure suit complete with cobalt blue lapels and a paisly neckerchief, he reminded me of a mix between John Travolta and Shaft.

I, being the fashion connoiseur that I am, was immediately intrigued by his flair. So when he came up and began talking with one of my friends I was beside myself with curiosity.

After taking in the conversation for a bit I realized that he was a promoter for one of Florence’s many discotheques.

His job was to hand out flyers to international students entitling them to discount cover fees as a promotion for the club he worked for. For every flyer of his that was used he would get a commission. I’ve met many of these promoters, but he was by far the best.

His demeanor was sophisticated and his delivery was smooth and I found myself wondering more and more about the man behind the retro facade. Inevitably the journalist in me took over and I began asking him questions first about the club and then eventually about himself.

Soon enough he’s sipping from a glass of straight Jack Daniels, smoking a Marlboro Red, and telling us all about himself.

Where did he come from? A little town on the Ivory Coast of Africa. How long had he been in Florence? A little over a year. How old was he? Long pause.

How had he gotten into club promotions? It was just one of his many jobs. What else did he do for a living? Well, he promoted a couple different clubs and had people who worked for him doing the same thing.

He was a rapper in a group with four of his friends and he also did some other things on the side that he probably shouldn’t tell me about.

Whoa, stop the groove train. At this point the Connie Chung in me is going nuts, but I kept quiet because I have found that silence is often more conducive to getting the information that you want.

So I just smiled a knowing smile and pretended I knew precisely what he was referring to, even though I didn’t have the slightest clue.

Sure enough, after taking a long drag off his third cigarette that evening, he scoots his bar stool nearer to the table and leans in close.

I could tell by the pause that he was trying to find the right words, and for a guy that speaks four languages relatively fluently, that said a lot.

“I’m an actor,” he said as he put out his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray on the table.

An actor?

I was fully prepared for something exciting and possibly scandalous.

I felt like a kid on Christmas morning who just opened a huge package, only to find inside a bunch of crumpled newspaper and a pair of socks.

But the next words out of Spike’s mouth would make even the toughest Iowan flinch.

Let’s just say that Spike’s movies will most likely not show up in your local Hollywood Video.

It took great effort to keep an open mind that night.

But I chalk it up to experience and next time I strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar, I’ll be sure to expect the unexpected.

Christy Steffen is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Ruthven. She is studying abroad in Florence, Italy, for the semester.