“It is a fake,” pronounced Dino matter-of-factly, his arms crossed. He was leaning against the counter of the developing kitchen. Behind him a piece of plastic sheeting hung almost to the floor from a missing piece of roof above our breakfast table.

“His family owned the place. He visited maybe a couple of times. It is not that old, maybe a few hundred years.”

Dino and Federico’s bed-and-breakfast advertised itself as “next to Dante’s house,” a structure a few doors down actually, the reference apparently given more for marketing than orientation. We had asked casually during our first breakfast what Dante’s house was like.

“He couldn’t get along with the city and they exiled him.” Dino warmed to his role.

“He died in Ravenna. So he’s buried there and now he’s famous. The city made his family’s place into a museum. All that Florence can do is send money once a year to buy oil for his eternal flame.”

“We saw tourists there when we arrived yesterday,” we said. People with cameras were waiting in lines headed by someone holding a collapsible chrome antenna with a handkerchief tied to the tip.

“It’s not worth a visit. They make sure they call it a museum because it isn’t really his house. But if you like to go, go.”

Dino was frustrated. His plan was simple, really. Break down a shared wall between the third stories of adjacent buildings and expand a successful B&B by 100%. But he was having trouble just getting a telephone line installed. Interminable delays hampered seemingly basic construction. It was raining on the see-through vinyl roof over the newly expanded breakfast area.

The morning pound cake was done. Federico removed it carefully from the oven across the kitchen from where we were sitting and laid slices on plates. Four of us were having breakfast this morning, a pair of heavily pierced and tattooed body artists from New Jersey, Carolyn and me. Dino stood nearby holding his fluffy little white dog.

Federico served the cake with a heavily accented “Good morning,” not attempting further conversation. He handed Dino a broken piece of pound cake which Dino fed in small bites to his dog. Dino was not finished.

Restaurants? Here are the best values. Here in fact are their business cards, each with a map on the back to find it. Things to see? There are too many. You will of course go to the Uffizi, then the Duomo where everybody goes. Just look around. It is everywhere.

Dino went through his list of recommendations dryly, knowing we would find history on our own. He was more specific in response to questions.

It turned out he had spent time in Paris. We had been there for a few weeks, we said, before coming to Florence.

“Paris and Florence are like cousins,” Dino observed. “Neither one likes change.”

What about the plethora of Internet shops in Florence and their near absence in Paris? Certainly that would indicate Florence’s receptivity to change. How are they “cousins?”

“They want to keep the status quo. There are old families, especially in Florence. They like to keep things as they are.”

What about the Internet?

“Both countries needed to deal with it. Italians have a different approach than the French, more accepting of innovation.”

He shifted his position against the plastic and let the dog down to the floor.

Italy, he said, incorporated the English word “computer” directly into the language. France, on the other hand, felt an obligation to coin a new word, ordinateur, based on the organizational functionality of the machine. He rested his case.

Later that day we looked up computer in our Italian/English dictionary, a fat little blue and red book we had picked up at the train station. Though it had infinitely more than we needed in the way of words, it didn’t list computer. “Computerize,” however, was translated in both directions. Computerizzare, it said. Verbo, transitivo.  “To computerize.” Apparently computer/computer was unnecessary.

One morning at breakfast we met a singing coach from the U.K. with a carefully trimmed beard and wire rimmed glasses.

Did he know Charlotte Church, we asked by way of conversation. No response. We were impressed, we went on, that when she was asked to sing for Christmas Eve in 1999 by the Queen and the Pope, she had turned them both down to celebrate with her family. Just shows her family values, we thought. We had seen her perform on television. How talented!

“Yes, she has talent.” He put down his cup and folded his hands.

“She is being pushed too hard. Her voice will be ruined by her late teens. Maybe earlier.”

What did he think of Andrea Bocelli, one of our favorites? We listen to his CD “sogno” nearly every evening as we prepare dinner at home.

The coach rolled his eyes ever so slightly. Bocelli, he allowed gently, is a pop singer. His own expertise, of course, was in coaching opera.

Yes, Bocelli has a good voice. Well, breakfast seems to be pretty much finished. Ta-ta, then.

We stayed at their B&B for two weeks, never seeing the same guests twice. We could have gone to breakfast every day for another month enjoying the colorful ease with which Dino’s guests, made to feel comfortable, opened up about themselves. Whether we took breakfast in the new area under the plastic tarp or in the smaller breakfast room in the original B&B, Dino would be standing by as facilitator, leaning against the counter in his black pullover and jeans.

No wonder. Florence grows on you. We felt as if we could have moved in and canceled the rest of our trip, except for the money it would have cost and the time we didn’t have and the fact we knew no one and didn’t speak Italian. Still, that shouldn’t have held us back.

Exploring restaurants on Dino’s list, we dropped in at a trattoria near the Duomo. They gave us seats at a table for six. Two of the other chairs were occupied by a chatty couple from Vermont, delighted to share stories in English about their adventures in Florence. The other couple at the table spoke to each other in Italian, mostly listening to American conversation.

We greeted the Italian couple in English. They responded in kind, particularly the husband, who allowed he had been to New York City. A business trip. His family had a textile business in Florence. They sold to Ralph Lauren.

How did he like New York? Fine, though a bit big.

Had he and his wife always lived in Florence? Always.

Many North Americans, we offered, tend to move from place to place. Florence was beautiful and interesting, but had he and his wife ever considered living elsewhere?

“Why would I live anywhere else?”

His wife remained silent. One of her eyebrows arched slightly. She bought a rose from a boy making rounds in the restaurant, held the bloom to her nose appreciatively.

It was time for them to go, he said. They had tickets for a concert. Arrividerci all around.

The next morning, Dino set up for breakfast in the small room. Another couple speaking Italian was there alone. They greeted us in English as we sat down.

Florence, commented the man hesitantly but amiably as we spread strawberry jam on our toast, was a perfect weekend retreat. Both of them worked in Milan, a big city with all the problems. Their three children were with his mother for a few days. He apologized for what he thought was poor English.

Milan, we burst out, was our next stop! We had rented an apartment there for a week. We knew about the shopping and the opera. What else was there to do in Milan which they would consider “not to miss?”

“Why would you want to go to Milan?”

Dino wandered in. It turned out the four of us were the only guests at the moment. We should make ourselves comfortable. He leaned back against the counter.

We enjoy visiting large cities, we told the couple on holiday from Milan. It’s variety for us; we live in a small town in the United States. They smiled, nodded.

Dino had been in the United States.  New York. Rockefeller Center.

Where in the United States are you from?

“Wisconsin.”

“Oh.” Half a smile. “What’s in Wisconsin?”

“Cows. Farms. Lakes. It’s very beautiful.”

Dino expressed sketchy interest in future visits to the U.S. The renovation project was keeping him very busy.

Months later, whiling away an hour in a bookstore near our home, I came across a guidebook to traveling in Wisconsin. It would be perfect, I thought, for Dino’s collection of travel books.

As a guidebook it wasn’t bad. The grabber was its cover, a color photo of an aging white barn. On the building’s side facing the new interstate highway, someone had painted a barn-size portrait of the Mona Lisa.

Why, indeed, would one live anywhere else?