The year was 1990, and my massage client, Mr. Big Movie Star, was shooting a film in Europe, mostly Italy and Hungary. It was the fashion among the Hollywood elite at the time, to have a massage therapist as part of the entourage. So, there i was, working in Europe.

It was a rare afternoon off, bright and mild, and I was walking the winding cobblestone streets of Rome, just strolling where my fancy might take me. I found myself in what appeared to be one of the nicer shopping areas, with stores with names like Fendi, Gucci, and Versace — not the kind of place I’d expect to find trouble on a sunny Roman afternoon.

I guess I’d wandered into a kind of cul de sac, without an easy exit — something made my skin crawl. I looked up from the fancy store window that contained an outfit that’d cost me a months rent at home, to find that I was alone… except for the gypsies who surrounded me, four woman and what looked to be a boy of about 10 years old. They didn’t look too friendly, and I became very aware of the fanny pack at my belly containing my passport, and my hard-earned money.

Without thinking, I lowered my stance to a crouch, opened and closed my fingers, and twisted my face, snarling and growling.

A look of surprise passed over the face of the woman whom I took to be the group’s leader. Clearly all poised to advance, they all looked at her. She said something in a language other than Italian, and as swiftly and as silently as they’d arrived, the band disappeared. My first thought was pleased wonder at how swiftly they moved, in concert with each other. Then the adrenaline hit, and my knees turned weak and watery. Whew!

- Sharon Stone

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