Saturday evening Pauline had asked a few of us to go to a party that her story source, Padre Claudio, had invited her to; she didn’t want to go alone.  Urbino is perched on the top of a ridge and our party was down in the valley. In two cars, our group headed down the dark and windy road and eventually we hit a dirt road.  At this point, I worry that our little group of five American students won’t know or have anything in common with the other partygoers.

After an eternity of winding turns and driving into dead-ends, we drive up to a little cottage nestled into a hill surrounded by trees and the open night sky filled with stars. I walk into the backyard and see tiki torches and an open bar at the end of the yard. Now I see unknown faces and feel tense about not knowing anyone. Immediately, I walk to the bar to get a drink so I can relax and practice my garbled Italian with the bartender.

Walking up to him , I realize that I know the “barista” (bartender).

“Federico?” I ask.

He gives me a scrutinizing look, and responds; “A si, la regazza giornalista.”

Federico is the lead singer of an Italian ska band called B.D.P.C. I am writing about his band and I had interviewed him briefly, earlier in the week.

“Mondo piccolo,” I say to Federico, as he mixes drinks and we both laugh.

This evening is not the first time I recognized someone I had met before during my two-week stay here in Urbino, emphasizing how small this town is.

I ask him “Dove sta Luca?”

Luca is our group’s translator and is a friend of the band. I think to myself “If Luca comes, I’ll have someone to introduce me to the Italians here.”  Luca did not come, so I desperately try to make small talk with some of the partiers. I even converse with the owner of the cottage, Fabio, who is B.D.P.C.’s saxophone player. I tell him that I like the track called “Linda.” He appears amused that I am familiar with their music so he turns to the D.J. and asks him to play “Linda.”

At 1:30 a.m. our group leaves and I feel disappointed that I had the potential to get to know more Italians from Urbino, but have failed.  Despite randomly knowing one of the band members of B.D.P.C., I still could not make a friend.

In the days to follow, during a second interview, the other band members remember  me from the party and they keep talking to me about Saturday night. I realize that I have made an impression. Federico asks me to hang out with some of his friends Monday evening and the Italian girls who, up until this point, I believed to be distant and cold, actually befriend me because they had seen me at the party.

This evening reminds me that not all Italians are that fascinated by Americans. However, despite the language barrier,  they do come around and give you a chance; they simply need time to find a common ground.