When Mario Dela Cruz first stepped off the train in Florence, Italy, he felt as if he had walked into a postcard. The warm Tuscan sun bathed the terracotta rooftops in golden light, narrow cobblestone streets wound through the city like veins of history, and the air carried the scent of fresh espresso.
Back in his hometown in Batangas, Mario had never imagined he’d be here. His father was a fisherman, his mother a market vendor, and life was a constant cycle of making ends meet. After finishing high school, he worked odd jobs car washing, delivery driving, construction until his cousin in Rome told him about a housekeeping position with a wealthy Italian family. The pay was good, and room and board were included.
Mario applied, thinking he had little chance, but his cousin vouched for him. A month later, he had a contract in hand and a plane ticket to Rome. From there, he took a train to Florence, where the Rossi family’s villa awaited.
The villa was like something out of a Renaissance painting arched windows, stone walls, sprawling gardens filled with lemon trees and roses. His tasks included cleaning the main house, laundry, ironing, and occasionally assisting the cook with kitchen duties. The work wasn’t physically heavy, but the standards were high. Everything had to be spotless, ironed to perfection, and arranged just so.
The Rossi family was kind but formal. Signora Rossi, the matriarch, was particular about her antique furniture and crystal glassware. Mario learned quickly to dust gently, polish silver without scratching, and handle fragile items with the care of a museum curator.
One of his favorite parts of the job was caring for the garden terrace. Every morning, before the rest of the staff began their chores, he would water the flowers and watch the sunrise over the city. Sometimes, the youngest Rossi child, Chiara, would join him, peppering him with questions about the Philippines. Mario would tell her stories about mango trees, fiestas, and riding tricycles through his village.
Life in Florence wasn’t always easy. The language barrier was tough at first, and Mario often felt homesick. But the local Filipino community became his second family they’d gather on Sundays in a small park, sharing adobo, pancit, and karaoke under the shade of old olive trees. Those afternoons reminded him of home and gave him the strength to keep going.
Every month, Mario sent most of his salary back to Batangas. His remittances paid for his younger sister’s nursing school and helped his parents repair their fishing boat. He kept very little for himself, spending only on essentials and occasionally buying souvenirs to send home.
After three years, Mario had learned conversational Italian, built trust with the Rossi family, and even traveled with them to their summer home by the sea. He had also saved enough to start planning for a small grocery store in his hometown, his dream business.
As he polished the villa’s marble floors one sunny afternoon, Mario thought about how far he had come from the salty shores of Batangas to the art-filled streets of Florence. His journey as a housekeeper wasn’t just about keeping a home clean; it was about building a better future, one careful step and one swept floor at a time.
