Renaissance of the Heart - Part 3 - Sex Stories

Renaissance of the Heart - Part 3

... decided to head for the Tourist Information Centre, hoping someone there would know. I could see from my map that it was only a couple of blocks away but involved the traversing of a couple of arterial roads. Crossing main roads was a nightmare, there being no point to the zebra crossings as far as I could tell. At one place I actually took a longer route to avoid getting mown down by the traffic. The alternative involved my walking through a park, where there was a pond and a few quacking ducks and a forlorn-looking summer house. I could have lingered there, but I began to feel guilty having no bread and walked on, trampling the piles of leaves under foot. After my detour, I reached the second main road but failed to see a way of navigating my way round. Crossing a busy road, with 200 motor cars bearing down on you in a foreign city was intimidating. Watching a couple of fellow pedestrians narrowly miss a serious accident wasn’t encouraging. I was about to summon up the courage to cross during a slightly less treacherous period when a couple of nuns breezed by and proceeded to cross, causing the traffic to halt. I followed them, in the wake of their holy protection, and arrived at the other side in one piece. I reached a river and dropped down, taking some steps to the bank where the autumn leaves had been blown into little brown piles and were now being scattered randomly in the breeze. The Tourist Centre was set back, above the east bank of the river. After involving a ...

... couple of the members of staff, they were unable to locate my street. I retraced my steps and, in trying to avoid the main road, got hopelessly lost. I consulted my map and somehow oriented my way back to my hotel via a completely different route. My first big appointment loomed and, taking no chances, I got the hotel to call me a taxi. The painting under my arm, I instructed the driver to take me to the National Institute of Art. It was a huge gothic affair, along a street with other important looking buildings, with the Italian flag waving above each entrance. I entered through the heavy front door and entered the cool, stone entrance where a guy in a kind of uniform greeted me at the desk. He raised his cap, revealing his slick, black hair. “Buongiorno, signorina! Come posso essere di aiuto?” “Oh. Ummm do you speak English?” “A little bit. How may I help you, please?” “I’m looking for Elanora di Rosso.” “Certamente! Second floor, is from the first door and is on the left.” “On the left?” “Si signorina. Her name is on the door.” “Multo gratzie!” I said in what little Italian I had. Inside, the institute was an odd mish mash of sterile rooms in a crusty edifice, with age worn paintings and old wedding cake ceilings. On the second floor I emerged in one such area, which had a modern appearance, with blank white walls and little stain glass windows at the top of the stair well. It was as if you were constantly reminded that you were in Rome. No matter how advanced the science ...