Marj and Kevin: is that who I think it is?

As the putative "fast train" lopes its sluggish way up the Adriatic coast towards Roma I find myself with some time to describe a uninvited but welcome member of our hardy band of travelers heretofore unintroduced--that international star of stage and screen, Morgan Freeman. Like the Phootes, this persona slowly revealed himself throughout the journey as Brooks accepted somewhat unwillingly this second identity. Heads in piazzas across Italy turned to stare when Brooks was recognized not as the professor/tourist we all know and love but the implacable and dignified, albeit slightly grizzled, driver of Miss Daisy or portrayer of the president in countless summer blockbusters that feature invasions by alien beings. Not infrequently and, in fact, as many as 3-4 times a day during the past 3 weeks, while negotiating public spaces, cappacini queues, epicerie isles, bus stops, piazzas, the escalator, the funicular, one among our group would hear a native speaker gasp, astonished, l'italien-accented: "MORGAN FREEMAN!" Really. It kept happening. Once in Napoli it was "DOCTOR J!" but that was an incongruous Napoli misunderstanding. Who knew they followed basketball? Although he feigned annoyance, he actually brought it on himself. Early in the trip he bought himself a natty straw fedora which he proceeded to wear at a rakish angle hat, a sartorial flourish that, in tandem with his dark shades, says "This is a fraudulent attempt at pretending I don't want to be recognized by assuring that I stick out in a crowd." The effect was exacerbated because Italians tend to be a lot shorter than Brooks and mostly not Black. WE INTERRUPT THIS POSTING FOR A TRAVEL/TECHNOLOGICAL UPDATE: IN ITALY IT IS NOW POSSIBLE TO BOOK SEAT ON A TRAIN WITHOUT INVOLVING PAPER AT ALL. THE CONDUCTOR JUST CHECKED MY SEAT VALIDITY BY READING THE CONFIRMATION NUMBER OFF MY IPAD SCREEN, NOT ON A PRINTED COPY OF THE RESERVATION. THE TIMES THEY ARE A' ...WELL, YOU KNOW. Now back to this tale of personal transformation. Another "tell" that helped create a stir and some, eye rolling and finger pointing as Brooks/Morgan lounged with the other "gentlemen of a certain age" in the afternoon sun' was Brooks '/Morgan's insouciant way of topping off a day's outfit with a sweater draped over his shoulders and knotted casually under his neck. This fashion choice just screamed "I may be as old as these guys but I'm still one roguish devil." While we were all more that willingly to bask in Mr. Freeman's star luster, we were somewhat disappointed in Brook's unwillingness to use this personal resemblance to get us free tickets, second cups of cappachino, free liters of wine, etc. What's the use of paying the price of fame if you can't get your friends free stuff, eh, Mr F (as his friends call him). We began to devise methodologies for taking advantage: MORGAN FREEMAN likes his cappuccino HOT, per favore. MORGAN FREEMAN would prefer the table with the VIEW OF THE PIAZZA, per favore. Per favore, CHARGE IT to MORGAN FREEMAN's account, and so on. Meanwhile Brooks felt the need to keep insisting that he is, in fact, MUCH YOUNGER THAN MORGAN FREEMAN, thereby ruining many of our efforts to capitalize. Really? Not THAT much.