“This place,” I say taking a seat across the gaping center aisle, “is not as magical as you might think.” This earns me a dirty look. But I shrug it off as we both assume the position of strangers avoiding contact, our eyes fixed on the distant podium, alight with votive candles and hope.

She is lovely, even in her anger, magnificent chestnut hair and a complexion of tantalizing caramel. To some, she might even pass as a local. But she is American. I can tell these things.

I breathe in the stale air, rank with complacency and that overly sentimental obsession that afflicts my village. The tourists who come all seem similarly tainted with romantic notions of the past. I try to disabuse them of this, not because I care, but because it amuses me.

“You know,” I say casually, “This place was once a brothel. It was run by fallen nuns and a very dirty Portuguese man who…”

She says nothing, but her magnificently dark eyes bore into me. I try to smile away her anger, but I don’t think it’s working.