Sometimes, it seems like I've spent half my life here in Italy waiting for a "guy" of some sort or other; usually to repair something, and usually a plumber or three. But this time, it's OK. I'm looking forward to seeing this "guy".

He's bringing me wine. Nothing fancy, just three cases of everyday, eminently drinkable red wine. Some of it's better than everyday, in fact. All of it terrific value. I'll add it to the four cases of Barolo and other cellarable and special occasion type wines that I've already bought from wineries here and there, and I should be all set for a while.

At least a month.

Which ought to tide me over until I figure out what's good to drink in Portugal, aside from the vinho verde (a white), with which I am already well aquainted.

And the port. We are actually bringing three bottles of vintage port that we acquired on previous trips to Lisbon. Much more interesting than coals to Newcastle, don't you think? Perhaps I'll start a new aphorism, or whatever it's called.

My only real question is: what will I do until we find an apartment and can have all that lovely wine delivered to its new home?

Oh, don't worry. I'll think of something.

I didn't know a whole hell of a lot about Italian wines until I got here, either.

Saturday night we went to Massimo's for dinner.

Massimo is a great guy. He lives by himself on the top floor of a high-rise in a newer area of Milan that used to be the village where his mother grew up. It's near the Arcimboldi Theater, which is also very modern and lovely: it's La Scala's home for the next few years while they renovate La Scala opera house. He has a lovely apartment, which he decorated himself with the greatest of taste. All very modern and minimalist.

He refers to the room where he keeps his weight bench as the "American Beauty Room."

But his pride and joy is the roof garden. It would be mine, too. It's beautiful and restful and quiet and very, very green. Verdant. You can see the mountains from up there, the Serratura and Monta Rossa. He spends most of his time up there in the warmer months.

I would, too.

He made a fabulous pasta with ragu sauce that he learned to make when he lived in Bologna, and for secondo he fired up his gas grill on the roof and cooked a variety of meats. Macedonia for dessert, very simple and fresh. In between, he spent a lot of time zipping up and down the spiral staircase, which seemed a bit dangerous to us but I suppose you get used to it.

After dinner, after we chatted for a while around the big table in his garden. After it started to get cold, we went downstairs and listened to some music (he loves blues), and watched a karaoke video that his friend had made about ten years ago, featuring Massimo with shoulder length hair (!), a suit, and a swatch from his collection.

It was a wonderful evening, and we're going to miss Massimo. You don't meet people like him everyday, although we do seem to have met more than our share since we've been in Milan.

I didn't cry.

Neither did he, nor Elvis.