Italian men. Their reputation proceeded them long before I arrived in Florence. So by the time I began my journey overseas, my mind had found ample time to create visions of these martyrs of European perfection.

And as my flight landed, my mind raced with thoughts of these modern-day Casanovas donning Armani suits, with olive skin and a sexy accent used to punctuate the sweet words of amore they would whisper in my ear.

So I’ll admit, after a week of living here in Florence, I was quite surprised I hadn’t run into my Italian Casanova. I thought for sure he would simply be lying in wait for the chance to whisk me away from the quaint cornfields and hog confinements of Iowa and off to his villa by the sea.

Little did I know, I just missed him by a couple blocks.

This twist of fate is now looked upon by my flatmates and I as the “Occurrence at Via Cherubini,” which is the street upon which we live in Florence.

The story goes something like this:

On a quiet evening sometime last week my flatmates Sarah and Vicky were walking home from the market.

After purchasing some authentic Italian goods, they made their way back to the flat in hopes of preparing a genuine Italian meal of yogurt and cereal.

The night air was brisk and as they followed the dimly lit streets toward home, they talked animatedly about the events of the day.

The two girls were so engrossed in conversation that they barely noticed a man sitting in a car parked on the side of the street. (Enter Modern-Day Casanova).

It wasn’t until they approached the turn onto Via Cherubini that they noticed that Casanova, in his sporty red car (about the equivalent of a Geo Metro in America) had begun to slowly follow them.

Sarah and Vicky, failing to realize that fate was hot on their tail, picked up speed. After all, they had no idea this was a real-life Casanova.

They had just rounded the turn, mere meters from home, when Casanova maneuvered his car into the path of the two unsuspecting women. With the street blocked, there was no place to go and it was at this point that Casanova chose to create a memory that will be passed on for generations to come in the families of Sarah and Vicky.

In one deft motion, Casanova bared all, thus shattering the pristine image of Gods of Romance worldwide and giving the term “Italian Stallion” an entirely different meaning.

So today, as I make my way through the bustling streets of Florence and am greeted by men of all ages – Florentine Casanovas who stare deep into your eyes as they pass, instead of feeling obligated to give the other, more popular parts of the female body, equal attention. And on the way to the pubs at night, I hear “Ciao, Bella” almost as often as I hear, “Hey Christy, you’re going the wrong way.”

Honestly, it’s a nice change from the treatment women get used to in America.

But each time I run into one of these smooth talking men ready to give me the world, I think of the “Occurrence at Via Cherubini” and for some reason a romantic evening amidst the cornfields and hog confinements of Iowa sounds pretty darn good.

Christy Steffen is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Ruthven.