“She was airlifted to Rome yesterday after she was shot trying to save a baby elephant from a poacher. Her condition is critical.”
“Italian elephants?” Ruby snorts. “What malarkey!” This causes a coughing fit.
“Do you need your oxygen tank, ma’am?” I ask Ruby. Then I whisper to Hindu Hair, “Maybe she shouldn’t fly?”
“Nonsense, I’m an eighty-two-year-old with the body of a seventy-year-old!” snaps the old bag as she heads for the bathroom, again. (My evil plan is working.)
Gate 32B, MIA: Thursday, 11:03 p.m.
Everything is closed except a twenty-four-hour doughnut shop. As I wait for my “hot now” doughnut in the microwave, I notice the electrical outlet next to the cash register. I study the young girl behind the counter. She doesn’t look like the type to watch porn on my tablet if I leave it with her for fifteen minutes to charge.
IF YOU: need to charge a device and find a nice doughnut girl to leave it with.
DO NOT: do it.
Gate 32B, MIA: Thursday, 11:39 p.m.
There is one last seat, on the last plane tonight. “Passenger Ruby Johnson,” calls Hindu Hair. Ruby got the seat! Fuck. Goodbye wine party. The recently divorced underwear model is going to be showing someone else that trick he does with his tongue. “Passenger Johnson?” the agent calls again. I look around, surprised. Where is Ruby? The agent calls her name again. No answer. She wouldn’t have left. Did she have a heart attack in the bathroom? Is she at this very moment lying face down on the cold tile with her eye open like Janet Leigh in Psycho? Faced with this horrible thought, I suddenly jump up and yell:
“She’s not here, I’m next!” Hindu Hair peers at me with a tired expression. Her hair temple leans sideways as she looks around, careful not to make eye contact with the other leftovers, who are staring like shelter dogs hoping to be adopted.
“Passenger Taylor, Nativity Marina Taylor,” Hindu Hair announces into the microphone, even though I’m fifteen feet away seated on the floor.
“Yes! Me!” I scramble to corral the belongings I had spread around me to mark my territory like a hermit crab. She hands me a boarding pass. Seat 54B. I can hardly believe it. That’s when it happens.
“Wait, I’m here!” Ruby of the Vegan Goat Farts appears, out of breath.
“It’s too late!” I say. “I’m getting on the plane.”
“That’s my seat. I was in the bathroom!”
“You snooze, you lose,” I say. Ruby starts to cry. “I’m eighty-four, I’ve got to see my great-grandchild before it’s too late.” She moves between me and the jetway.
“You’ve got the body of a seventy-year-old, remember?”
“No respect for your elders,” snaps Ruby.
“You’re three times my age. You’ve had your adventures. It’s my turn!” I say. Without warning, Ruby tries to snatch the boarding pass out of my hand. I react, and tug back on it. Suddenly, she’s grabbed my arm, with a look right out of the exorcist on her face. I grab her hand and the wrestling match is on, each of us trying to take the boarding pass without ripping it.
“Ladies, please! Don’t make me call TSA,” says Hindu Hair, without much intention of actually doing anything. Obviously this is not her first standby skirmish.
“This isn’t a geriatric wrestling tournament—the seat is mine!” I shout. But now Ruby’s twisted my arm around her body and is leaning forward so it looks like I’m grabbing her and not the ticket.
“Help! This woman is attacking me!” she yells.
“What?!” I yell. “That’s not—” I try to snake my arm out, but she’s got me.
“Let her go,” says Hindu Hair to me.
“I’m not—she’s the one that—” but I’m cut off by Ruby’s lung-filled yell.
“Help! Attacker! Call 911!” Now, literally everyone is looking as Ruby throws her arms up, thrusting her ass back into my stomach (a move she’s certainly learned in her self-defense for seniors class at the American Legion) and karate chopping my shoulder as she kicks my shin. I yell in pain, and the weight of my backpack pulls me onto my butt on the floor. Boarding pass in hand, Ruby grabs her bag and runs into the jetway.
“Get back here, you mean, lying, very strong—old cow!” I get to my knees, about to give chase, but she’s gone. “I hope your oxygen mask doesn’t work!” I yell. Big arms wearing blue shirts suddenly grab me, lifting me to my feet.
“Hold it there, or you’re under arrest!” The arms belong to two big, muscly TSA guys. SHIT! But then, suddenly I see a face I know. Mike!
“Oh dear God! Marina? Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ve got your pills!” Mike, my good friend, a flight attendant, is suddenly shoving spearmint Tic Tacs into my mouth and pinching my nose. “Swallow!” he commands. I stare at him with bewildered confusion. “She’s a fly-polar-phobic. Her fear of flying alters her brain chemistry. Hold still—” He checks my eyes and puts his wrist on my forehead. To me: “Your pulse is low. Hold your arms up in the air.” To the guys: “I’ve got to get some cranberry juice in her, STAT. Thank you boys, I’ll take care of this.” He peels me out of their grip. “Wow, aren’t you strong?” Mike shoots a flirty smile at the TSA agent as he hauls me to a door marked “No Entry.” As we disappear through the door, he calls over his shoulder, “Keep up the good work brave men in blue.”
Employee Hallway, MIA: Thursday, 11:47 p.m.
“Are you trying to get me fired?” Mike is furious. “No!” I’m tearing up.
“Remember when I said be on your best behavior because anything you do is a reflection on the employee who gave you the buddy pass? That’s me, you asshole!”
“I’m so sorry, Mike! I just snapped! They called my name, Mike. That geriatric bitch took my spot! They called my name.” I sob.
He suddenly smacks my face lightly. I glare at him, shocked.
“Get it together, sister,” he says. “The whole idea of a buddy pass is flexibility. Can you be flexible, Marina?” Mike asks.
“I’ve been like double-jointed hooker flexible, Mike! This is the last flight tonight. If I don’t get on it, I’ll have to sleep on your couch in South Beach!”
“Well, I just got off a triple shift and haven’t seen my boyfriend in a week, so that is not happening,” he says. I grab his blue vest.
“Then get me on that flight!”
Flight #632: Thursday, 11:58 p.m.
Yes! Wine party here I come. Mike has worked some voodoo magic and found an extra seat somehow. The plane is pushing back before I’ve buckled my seatbelt. It’s a middle seat in the last row, in front of the bathrooms, right next to . . . Ruby. But my feeling of dread begins to fade as the first announcement in Italian is made over the PA system. “Tutti i dispositivi elettronici devono essere spenti ora.”i* I’m going to Rome, at last! I’ll just call my mother and let her know.
i * Translation: All electronic devices must be switched off now.
Chapter 5
How Not to Get Picked Up
Fiumicino Airport, Rome, Italy: Friday, 3:56 p.m.
WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU LAND
1. Men with machine guns walking around the airport.
2. The beautiful white noise of language soup.
3. Lines in the bathroom.
4. Cigarette smoke, everywhere.
5. A half-hour wait for your luggage.
6. Body odor, lots of it.
7. Lines in customs.
8. Lines in passport control.
9. Nuns in habits.
10. Lines at the bar (where you buy your caffè latte).
Piazza Della Repubblica, Rome: Friday, 5:40 p.m.
I have taken the train to Termini station and changed into a sundress and floppy hat, cute and ready for adventure. Outside Termini, I haul my stuff past buses, taxis, trinket stands, and a group of Chinese tourists squeezing into a bus at the same time. I pause on the edge of the busy traffic circle. In the middle, the fountain stands in full glory and splendor. A stream of cars and scooters flow around it. Backl
it water gleams like liquid fire in the late afternoon sun, cascading off the backs of the four beautiful nymphs of the lakes, rivers, oceans, and springs. A strong wind sweeps through buildings that are hundreds of years old and over the surface of the fountain, sending a light mist all the way to where I’m standing, the droplets kissing my bare arms and legs. Could I take a selfie from the safety of this vantage point? Yes. Do I? Of course not.
I have two false starts, edging my way out timidly into the traffic circle, only to be scuttled back onto the sidewalk like a pigeon by angry taxi horns. Finally, I decide to just go for it. Halfway across, a scooter swerves around me, someone curses me in Italian, my rolling case flops over on its side, and the wind rips my sunhat off my head, launching it into the air. Dragging my little suitcase behind me, I make it to the safety of the fountain . . . and see my hat floating toward the center. I could tell you now that it was my favorite hat, but the truth is I needed little excuse to go in. After all, I am part fish. It was not Fontana di Trevi and I was not Anita Ekberg, but I was going to have my La Dolce Vita moment.
The water is cold. I wade quickly toward my hat, slip on the scummy bottom, and go down on my ass. (I’m not the most graceful, we’ve already established that.) I scramble back up, my heart pounding, endorphins coursing through me. Suddenly I’m laughing uncontrollably. I’m thousands of miles away from the place I’ve always been. I’m far away from anyone who knows me at all. I’m in ROME! In a fountain! Alone! I’m whomever I want to be, each new moment, deciding for myself. And, in this moment I choose to frolic. I jump. I dance. I splash. I scream with joy.
Then, I see him. I freeze. Seated in a red vintage Alpha Romeo convertible is a man, with a camera, and a long lens . . . aimed at me. He’s watching through the telephoto lens and snapping away. What’s he getting close ups of? My wet hair stuck to my face and neck? My soaked sundress plastered to my body like a glove? My heaving chest and wet breasts, out of breath from dancing? The open buttons of the top of my dress slightly exposing my left nipple? The wet, floral skirt of my dress stuck into the crack of my shapely, supple, perfect ass? How dare he? I’m flattered, embarrassed, and enraged. Who does he think he is? And more importantly, do I look like a model from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition?
I flip him off. He grins and shoots another photo. This is not what I expect. He shrugs and points. I look over and see the busload of Chinese tourists, also shooting photos. Oh. That’s. Wow. Not good. Suddenly I’m not whomever I want to be. I’m the crazy American girl breaking the law, disrespecting history, and getting hepatitis C from pigeon poop water. I will now appear in no less than twenty-seven family slideshows of their vacations in Europe. I look around for my hat. Fuck it.
Wading to the side of the fountain, I quickly haul myself out, put my shoes on, and collect my things. The Alpha Romeo pulls up right in front of me. The man hops out of the car, holding a new hat he’s purchased from a tourist stand.
“Bonjour belle sirène. If you’re done with your swim, would you like a ride?” His accent is strange and adorable. His hair dirty blond, skin a very dark tan. His beautiful light brown eyes are hiding behind glasses. And his smile is cocky.
“You can’t just take photos of people without asking,” I say, trying to hold onto any shred of dignity I may have left.
“Je suis désolé,” he smiles. “I’m a photographer. When I see something interesting, odd, or beautiful, I must shoot it. It’s an addiction.”
“Odd?” I give him a look. “What the heck does that mean?”
“It means bizarre.”
“I know what it means!”
“Étrange, and full of joie de vivre,” he grins.
“It doesn’t make it okay if you say it in French.” I narrow my eyes.
“Sure it does. French is the most powerful language in the world,” he smiles. “Everything sounds nicer in French. You’re alone?”
“No. I’m independent.”
He laughs as he lifts my suitcase effortlessly into the back seat of his car. “Exactly where are you going, independent girl?” He opens the passenger door.
“Exactly nowhere with a presumptuous, rude stranger who sounds like a language experiment gone wrong.” I step over and grab the handle of my suitcase, and (not effortlessly) yank it back out of the car.
“My mother is Italian. My father is French Moroccan. I am generous. I’m offering a ride. None of the taxi drivers will take you dripping wet.”
“But you will in your midlife crisis car with leather seats?”
“I like wet American girls,” he tilts his head and grins. He is standing very close to me and I feel my stomach lurch as he raises his eyebrow at his own innuendo. Oh dear. I am definitely not getting into his car now. No matter how much I want to ride in that beautiful car, or how handsome he is.
“Well I don’t like creepy Euro guys who take photos of me with my dress plastered to my ass!” His glance slips down my body, and I take a step back.
“But it’s such a beautiful one,” he smiles. Does he mean my dress or my ass?
“Delete those photos!”
“I’d sooner blow up that statue.” He stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us blinks. Water drips from the tip of my nose. Mist forms a glistening sheen on his dirty blond, wavy hair. The wind frees my wet skirt from my legs, sending it out around my legs and up like Marilyn Monroe. A sudden chill up my body, goose bumps rippling up my arms. I tremble. He catches this.
“Chair de poule! You have the goose bumps. Last chance, chèrie,” he says. “Viens. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes. Come with me.”
“So you can abduct me, take my passport, and sell me into sex slavery? I’ve seen that movie. It doesn’t end well,” I sputter. He laughs.
“D’accord.” He plops the hat on my wet head and hops back into the convertible. Then, a siren. I look over to see Carabinieri veer into the traffic circle, blue lights flashing.
“Wait,” my convictions crumble.
“Bonne chance, independent girl,” he calls as he drives away. Dick. The police car stops in front of me. SHIT.
IF YOU: ever find yourself in this situation DEFINITELY DO NOT:
1. Cry. They don’t care.
2. Laugh. They’re not amused.
3. Pretend you only speak Danish. You don’t.
4. Ask if they’ve seen La Dolce Vita.
5. Offer money.
6. Offer “some other kind of arrangement.”
7. Say you have a rare skin condition and will dehydrate if you cannot fully submerge yourself in water every twenty-four hours.
Istituto delle Suore Della Virtù Santa, Outskirts of Rome: Friday, 7:16 p.m.
I have decided to put Frantonio out of my mind. This is what I’ve named him. Yes, I could have gotten into the car and had a fantastic Italian tryst with a handsome French-Italian stranger on night one. But I also could have been kidnapped and ransomed back to a mother who won’t even pay full price at a garage sale. I’ve chosen wisely. No regrets. I won’t think about Frantonino anymore. Ever. Really.
The “clean, safe, and affordable” place to stay with a “stunning view” that my mother’s friend Donna recommended turns out to be an actual convent on the top of a very tall hill, just outside of Rome. It’s a twenty-five-minute bus ride from the center of the action. This must be where the Vatican sends its nuns post-retirement, because there is no way any of these ladies are under seventy. One wheels her oxygen around with her, which is decorated with a hand-stitched depiction of the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension of Christ. My mother would love it. This is just her sort of place. Perfect. And here I was thinking I’d left all the retirees back in Florida. But it’s too late now to find another place. I had eagerly taken my mother up on her offer to pay for lodging my first week in Rome, so now I’m stuck. The nuns don’t speak much English, but the youngest of them (sixty-three) is able to use her computer to access the Comune Di Roma website and help me pay the fine I’d been given by th
e Carabinieri.
Soon, I’m in my room, unpacking by upending my entire bag onto my bed. Apparently, “Senz’aria condizionata” is not a brand of air conditioning unit. There is only a small fan near my bed that stops and starts randomly when you use anything else electric in the room. But the place is clean and cute. By this point, I have only a half hour to get ready for the wine party and catch the bus back down the hill into the center of town.
I grab my little black dress and stilettos and suddenly I realize my tablet is gone. Seriously? My mother was right? I’ve been in the country less than six hours and I’ve already been robbed? Where and when? The train station? What should I do? Call the police? I run out of my room, find the nearest nuns, and launch into a terrible charades routine trying to explain. I’ve never been good at charades, but thankfully these ladies are. I’m miming the word “tablet,” which they somehow get. They’re likely trying to decide whether I need aspirin or I’m a drug addict, when I suddenly remember. The doughnut shop, Miami airport.
VIDEO CALL
Call - WILL - No Answer
7:36 p.m.
Call - WILL - No Answer
7:38 p.m.
Call - WILL - No Answer
7:39 p.m.
INSTANT MESSAGE
WK:
at work, what’s up?
MT:
need your help.
WK:
you okay? something happen?
MT:
I’m ok. my tablet is at MIA
WK:
missing in action?
MT:
Miami airport. doughnut shop. T2.
WK:
you kidding?
MT:
no, can you get it?
WK:
and?
MT:
Fedex it?
(long pause)
WK:
I’m busy
MT:
come on, cops love doughnuts
WK:
(middle finger emoji)
MT:
please
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 3