ARE YOU A MODEL – PART 23

 


ARE YOU A MODEL – PART 23

We walk into Club Black and White, and it’s like stepping into an alternate universe—one full of pulsing music, flashing lights, and impossibly beautiful people. The place will become our second home during our time in Italy—at least, until we burn through our welcome like sparklers on New Year’s Eve.

At the door, I start off with my broken Italian, full of confidence and mispronunciations, and finish—naturally—in loud English, as if volume will magically bridge the language gap. Why do we always assume yelling in our own language somehow makes us more understandable? It’s practically a rite of passage for Americans abroad.

But it works. Within the first hour, I’ve met the owner, chatted with security, kissed cheeks with the bartenders, and basically become a minor celebrity in the club. Turns out, they think we’re from the ice show. Somewhere in my linguistic confusion, I must’ve told them we’re all professional skaters. So now we’ve got carte blanche treatment, and I’m not about to correct anyone.

The club is packed. There are two massive rooms, each vibrating with deep house music that makes conversation feel like shouting into a helicopter blade. In the hallway, I somehow become the most popular person of the night—again, because I’m American and, apparently, an Olympic ice dancer. They’re looking at me like I’ve just landed from Mars.

And honestly? I don’t blame them. Italians are stunning. Not just model-gorgeous, but magnetic. Stylish, warm, glowing. I couldn’t spot an ugly one in the whole crowd if I tried.

Somewhere between explaining the meaning of Madonna’s Frozen to a group of enthusiastic new friends (they’re hanging on my every word like I wrote the song myself), I catch the eye of a man so beautiful I nearly forget my name. I excuse myself mid-translation and float over to him.

His friend instantly jumps in—delighted to try out his English. And he’s not letting go of this opportunity. He starts grilling me about Baywatch, of all things, and I spend a solid hour pretending to care about David Hasselhoff just to get to the guy standing next to him. Eventually, I manage to lose the friend and end up in a quiet corner with Mr. Beautiful.

He’s a Dolce & Gabbana model, naturally. Because of course he is. That bone structure doesn’t grow on trees.

A fellow cast member pops his head out from behind a curtain looking comically distressed. “Help,” he mouths. One of the club’s more amorous patrons has decided to give him the full Italian welcome, and he’s not exactly handling it like a champ.

As the night winds down, we all reconvene. There’s laughter, flushed cheeks, promises to return the next night. We pile into the van like tipsy teenagers after prom, buzzing with the energy of the night. On the ride home, we swap stories, everyone trying to top the next with who got flirted with hardest, who danced the most, who met a famous someone.

Back at the Lugano, I stumble up the stairs to my room with a dumb grin on my face. If this is what Italy has in store for us? Let me die here.

The next morning, I spring out of bed and race down to the dining room, ordering coffee in Italian like a local—probably still glowing from the night before.

But this isn’t just a vacation. Rehearsals begin.

We pile into the van, still half-laughing from the night before, and head to our gorgeous rehearsal space—a sleek gym with full-length mirrors and polished floors. We warm up, muscles stretching and hearts syncing, and then the Assistantsdive in. No yelling, no chaos—just clean, focused teaching.

We make it through an entire show in one day. The choreography starts to click, the energy is flowing, and for the first time since we were rehired, I see smiles across the room. This—this is how performers work. Give us direction, and we build something real.

I have an understudy rehearsal later that day with the Assistant Director, and we talk about character development. She asks, “How do you feel when this happens?” and for once, I don’t feel like I’m just surviving—I’m actually creating. We’re moving at lightning speed, cleaning and stitching the show back together. Every eight count we master, every beat we hit, is another stitch in the wound left by the Director and Choreographer.

We’re healing.

But we all know—somewhere in the back of our minds—that this beautiful calm won’t last forever.

Because soon…

The Choreographer returns.

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