Carlo the Driver

Carl strutted into the hotel lobby to whisk me to the airport. He looked like a refuge from the French image of an Italian in a film. Slim but with well-shaped body and butt in jeans, a blue shirt opened to reveal a gold medal nestled in manly chest hair. Black hair, slicked back from his chiselled cheek bones ended in curls around his collar.

Because it was fixed price and I wasn’t rushed, he undertook a mini tour of the city showing me the catacombs, different ruins and famous streets. In his broken English I learned he was from the heel of Italy, he works seven days a week ten months a year, pays €600 for his room, is self-taught in English. He gave me cards for other trips and to give to my friends. This is his business and he opens a shop at night.

When he wrote out the receipt he offered to double the amount. I said no. “You are different,” he said. I don’t want to think dishonesty is different even if they are two “d” words.