Romina, Nicola, Maried and I were walking into my apartment when we first ran into the Prostitute. At the time we did not know who he was but he was talking to someone on the speaker to our building so he came inside when we opened the door. All four of us squished into the elevator while he took the stairs and talked about how scary it would be if he was at our door. When we got out, HE WAS!!! So leave it to Romina to do the right thing. Announce to him that she had keys and let him inside! At this point he was extremely confused and started shouting one of my roommates name in a desperate attempt to find his friends. Once he finally got inside he proceeded to scream "WHO ARE THESE ENGLISH GIRLS!" not realizing that we did not have English accents (as I have found out a lot of Italians cannot tell the difference). Apparently no one had told him that my roommates had two Americans, let alone American girls, living with them.
After his initial freak out, he calmed down enough to tell us his name, Massimiliano. He then told us the first of what would be many lies, that he was a prostitute. Somehow though, the name "Prostitute" stuck and his real name didn't. I tried telling my mom on skype that I was living with a prostitute and she told me to respect cultural differences and that maybe being a male escort was normal in Italy. Okay mom. Let me give you an idea of the person I lived with for the past month. He only brought clothes for one weekend. That's about 3 shirts, two pairs of pants, and a jacket. So naturally what do you do when you are visiting 7 of your friends and only have 3 shirts but decide to stay for one month? Borrow one? No. The Prostitute preferred to just not wear one. Doesn't matter that it was about 20 degrees outside and snowed 3 times while he was here. He never wore a shirt (note picture). He also never slept at night. You could find him walking around the house at any hour of the night and if you woke up hungry around breakfast, he would most likely be in the kitchen cooking up a huge pot of pasta for himself before he decided to go to bed. He would call this dinner. He slept during the day and went out about every single night. I had to start sleeping with my door locked because on more than one occasion he barged into my room at 5am just to see what was up and to chat. NOT OKAY! There were also events that occurred that I cannot speak of because no one wants to hear about them again. At first I was not a fan of my 11th roommate, but slowly he became my favorite. The Prostitute was always there to talk to in his crazy, undecode-able dialect voice, shirtless and cigarette in hand. Unfortunately, he decided that one month was long enough away from home, where I have learned he does the exact same thing. His poor mother. Don't worry though. I will get to see him when I go to Le Marche for Christmas. And he also told me he would be back in February. Maybe this time he will pay rent!
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