to market, to market

Lunchtime rolled around and I headed out into the freezing weather that's hit Cape Town for a stroll. Ended up at the Food Lover's Market for a quick perv (yes, I look at food. yes, it's weird).

So there I am, walking at a glacial pace past the sushi counter, about to head over and make friends with the sight of the pizza/pasta deli, and then possibly visit the bakery for a quick peek, when I was accosted by a flamboyant Italian - 'Senorina, you are bee-yoo-ti-fool. When you are feenishhed you come haf a cappuccino with us,' indicating his tall, equally Italian friend.

Now I'm not in the habit of accepting spontaneous coffee invitations from strange European men. You'd be surprised how often it doesn't happen. But I was bored. And they seemed like fun. And the Market was busy, so the chances of my being kidnapped and sold into white slavery seemed minimal (the last time this kind of thing happened I was ten and some Egyptians tried to buy me from my parents during a family holiday in Cairo).

So we had a cappuccino. Who am I to turn down free coffee?

What a completely out-of-the-ordinary fifteen minutes. Little, flamboyant Gianni, it turns out, is here opening a lingerie shop in the Cape Quarter. Flavio, lounging in a very Italian fashion against the coffee bar, is an architect who teaches Salsa in his spare time.

I'm sorry, but seriously? Could they be more European?

Was all very entertaining and without the ickyness of feeling like you're being picked up - call me naive but I think they were genuinely just being friendly, as only Europeans can be. For a start, they were well older than me. As Gianni put it: 'You are so young! Like a leetle cheecken coming out of an egg.'

So as we're parting ways, Gianni is scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, which he hands me most ceremoniously in the midst of a chorus of 'Ciao! Ciao!'. Walking back to the office, I'm thinking, oh great, here we go, it's his phone number and there goes the lovely innocence of our spur-of-the-moment, friendly meeting after which we'll never see each other again and I'll just have a nostalgic memory of some random Italians I happened to have coffee with once. Now it's all ruined.

But unfolding the slip of paper, trying to decide whether I'd be able to sacrifice the amazing Market in an attempt to never run into them again and avoid having an awkward 'Why deed you neverrr tellyphone?' conversation, I see it simply says:

'Did somebody tell you today you are beautiful?'

Thank god. Sweet, self-esteem-boosting, and not expectant of anything in return. So there are still some moments in life that don't devolve into base hit-ons.

And yes, actually. Boyfriend tells me quite often. He's rather beautiful himself, and has an added bonus in that he doesn't speeek like theese.