WK:
I’m working
MT:
doing what?
(pause)
WK:
drug bust
MT:
BS
WK:
serious
MT:
really?
WK:
you worried?
(long pause)
MT:
yeah, about my tablet
WK:
(double middle finger emoji)
MT:
officer cowboy can take care of himself
WK:
true
MT:
Will, there are photos on it
WK:
so?
MT:
sexy ones
WK:
seriously?
MT:
yeah
(pause)
WK:
for who?
(long pause)
MT:
Will, please
WK:
this is a boyfriend ask
MT:
I know
WK:
I’m not your boyfriend anymore
MT:
I know (long pause)
MT:
please, Will
WK:
send me your address
MT:
thank you
WK:
keeping the photos.
Chapter 6
How Not to Impress Your Friend’s Friends
Rooftop Garden, Hotel De’ Ricci, Navona, Roma, Rome: Friday, 8:35 p.m.
String lights illuminate a long table elegantly decorated with flowers, fine china, and many, many wine glasses. Waiters in black jackets buzz in and out of a catering station. Apparently, an exclusive wine release party is a wine tasting and dinner party, held at a swanky, boutique hotel for wine lovers. Just off Piazza Navona in the center of the historic district, the hip Hotel De’ Ricci is a stark contrast to my stoic convent east of Eden. The party gives the vintner an exclusive backdrop to unveil the latest and greatest wines of the season to Italians wearing shoes more expensive than my college car. The little black dress I’m wearing is indistinguishable from the ones the cocktail waitresses are wearing. The only difference is the amount of cleavage they’re all displaying. So far three people have asked me where the bathroom is and one ordered a drink. At least I think that’s what he wanted. They’re all speaking Italian.
Nadya is radiant in a backless, powder blue halter dress and silver stilettos. Her blonde hair, piled “carelessly” atop her head, sits magically in place, tiny ringlets cascading onto her shoulders. Two or three well-dressed Italian men hover around her, like attendants to Titania, the Shakespearean fairy queen. My dirty airplane hair pulled into a ponytail doesn’t quite have the same effect, but I didn’t have time to shower after the tablet drama. I’d asked for a key as I rushed out of the convent to catch the bus, and the nuns had explained to me that there was no key. The convent is open until midnight. After that, I will be locked out. A curfew? My first night in Rome? I’d decided to worry about this later.
As soon as we are all seated, Nadya introduces the first wine. It is indeed better than anything I’ve ever bought at Costco. As I sip the fine red nectar of the gods, I find myself thinking again about Frantonio. What nerve. I guess rich, attractive Italian men with sport cars are used to having women fall into their arms. His were nice arms.
“Un bel vino rosso,” Nadya’s voice breaks through my daydream. She’s seated next to me. “Plums and cherries on the nose, well balanced with just a whisper of coffee and cocoa on the palate, you taste? É fantastico, no?” Yes, it is fantastic. By the third wine we sample, I have realized that drinking with Nadya is like test-driving a classic sports car. You quickly find yourself in a love you can’t afford. “Amarone Classico,” she tells me. “She’s like the princess of the Italian wine aristocracy. As we eat, I’ll introduce you to the king and queen.” I smile with anticipation and make a mental note to take it easy so I’ll last.
Nadya introduces me to everyone as her “talented American writer friend from Miami.” This gives me instant street cred. Not the writer part . . . the Miami part. “Have you ever been to Pharrell Williams’s house?” and “Are there really alligators in the sewers?” they ask. I tell them the best drag shows in the country are in South Beach, and Topolino (Mickey Mouse) isn’t my favorite neighbor. When I explain that I only went to college in Miami and actually live in Key West, a strange island of misfits, their eyes glaze over. But then, “Hemming-way?” asks a voice from behind me.
“Yes, exactly!” I smile, turning around, pleased that someone knows something about Key West. It’s one of the young waiters. He’s got a bashful smile with a dimple in his left cheek. “He’s one of my favorite writers, despite the fact that he was a little sexist and a lot drunk.”
“You’ve just described the national character of this country,” says the German ex-pat across from me with a chuckle. I’m glad not to be the only non-Italian.
“I like Sun Also Rises, and Old Man and the Sea, but most of all, For Whom the Bell Tolls,” the waiter smiles. “I’m reading him for school,” he says enthusiastically as he sets down a huge plate of roped mozzarella di bufala for an appetizer, and my mouth begins to water. The table conversation slips back into Italian. But I’ve been using my Italian study app diligently, so I listen carefully. Soon, I deduce the following:
1. The girl with the green blouse either works as a flight attendant for Alitalia, or at a meat packing plant.
2. The man with the hat hates Tom Cruise movies and is allergic to eggplant.
3. The German lady has a parrot that swears like a sailor. Or her father is married to a sailor.
4. One of the guys at the end of the table has just parachuted with a koala. Or he’s just graduated from hairdresser school.
“Ernesto Hemingway” returns with our primi piatti. When he sets my plate down, I thank him with a polite grazie, tacking on this new nickname, and he is delighted. His lovely green eyes flirt with me as he cleverly describes the octopus salad in front of me as “A Farewell to Arms.” But I don’t laugh. In fact, I’m horrified.
“Oh, no! I can’t eat this, I’m sorry, Ernesto,” I say.
“Perchè? You are vegetarian, bella?”
“No, it’s just that octopuses are highly intelligent and have individual personalities. They can solve complex puzzles and they have three hearts.” Ernesto is now bright red, and I’ve attracted the attention of everyone around me.
“Tre?” He exclaims. I have only one heart and I break it often!” he winks. “Mi dispiace molto, bella. I will change it for you subito.”
“Change mine too please,” Nadya saves me. “I can’t eat something smarter than I am.” Everyone laughs.
“Having a best friend who is a marine biologist limits your diet considerably,” I explain.
“I’ll bring you the green salad,” Ernesto smiles. “The pasta is rigatoni with cheese and mushroom—is this okay?”
“Oh, yes! I adore rigatoni,” I say, eager to show everyone I’m not actually difficult. For some reason this elicits chuckles. Later I find out that rigatoni is sometimes a euphemism for oral sex, thanks to a famous Italian TV commercial. Who knew?
Piazza Augusto Imperatore, Rome: Friday, 11:50 p.m.
My fantasy rich, handsome, recently divorced underwear model must have had a prior engagement in someone else’s fantasy, because he never showed. All of the other men there were either with dates, older than my dad, or government officials facing charges of corruption. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one leaving the wine party early to catch a bus so that nuns won’t lock me out of my room. Even worse, I’m pretty sure I’ve now missed the last bus. There’s nobody else here at the bus stop. The schedule is written in very blurry Italian. The only souls in sight are some teenagers who have wandered down from Piazza di Spagna after a night of singing and drinking and making fun of tou
rists. I’m just about to ask one of them if there are any more buses, when a scooter pulls up.
“Signorina Polpo!” the rider calls to me. I move a few steps away. He pulls off his helmet, and I’m pleased to see it’s Ernesto Hemingway, the adorable waiter. I smile and walk over. “The buses are finished. Only the night buses over at Piazza Venezia.”
“Perfect. The nuns are about to lock me out.”
“Nuns?”
“At the convent where I’m staying. There’s a midnight curfew.”
“Mezzanotte? It’s too soon. I will take you.” He grabs an extra helmet from the compartment inside his scooter. “We must hurry.” I stare at the helmet, then at him. Really? He seems harmless enough. This is for sure my only small chance of making it back to my room in time. “Bella donna, vieni!” says Ernesto, earnestly.
“Okay. Grazie.” I take the helmet, jam it onto my head, and throw my leg over the back of the scooter. Ernesto cranks the scooter. My heart races. Andiamo! Let’s go! Yes! I will seize the opportunity this time. I will throw caution to the wind. Together we will zoom up the hill to the convent, and arrive just in time!
Chapter 7
How Not to Discuss Hemingway
Outskirts of Rome: Friday, 11:59 p.m.
Or not. These visions quickly vanish as we putter and sputter up the steep Roman hill at the pace of a senior division marathon runner. There is absolutely no way we’re going to make it in time. As the Romans say, “Non c’è trippa per gatti” (no tripe for cats, or, no hope in hell). But the view is beautiful, and I have plenty of time to enjoy it as we make the slow climb. Roma is beautifully sprawled out below us with her twinkling lights, like a drunken prom queen passed out on the floor in her sparkly dress. Ernesto points out buildings and monuments as we go, but I can’t hear over the angry wasp sound of his scooter. Our bodies are sandwiched together, secure and comfortable.
The wind whisks a cacophony of kitchen smells off his clothes and hair, filling my nostrils: basil, fish, onions, wine, garlic . . . lots of garlic. I close my eyes and feel the cool wind on my face. Somewhere along the way I stop worrying about getting locked out of my room, about the fact that I’m vertically spooning a complete stranger, about everything. This is the real magic of Italy. Italians have mastered the physics of slowing time down. The minute you stop thinking about what you just did, or what you’re about to do . . . the moment you’re actually in comes into sharp, delicious focus.
Istituto delle Suore Delia Virtù Santa, Outskirts of Rome: Saturday, 12:14 a.m.
The gate is locked. Punctuality is a godly requirement. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). In high school I had a notebook filled with that one scripture, written over and over in detention. The Byrds were probably inspired by the same punishment in Catholic school.
The stone wall surrounding the convent is higher than I remembered. I stand, staring up at it. Maybe if he gives me a boost, I can pull myself up and over. Ernesto thinks this is a bad idea, but when I kick off my flip-flops he relents, bends his knees, and forms a basket for my foot with his hands.
“Uno, due, tre!” he whispers as I jump, and he hikes up my foot. I grope the wall, but slide back down, into his arms. We laugh awkwardly. We try again. Uno, due, tre . . . grunting noises . . . laughing. Each time, I almost grab the top, but slide back down into his arms. We are both trying desperately not to make noise, but now laughing so hard we can barely breathe. On the fourth try, I manage to catch hold of a crack in the wall and hoist an arm over the top.
“Yes!” he cheers a little too loudly as I dangle triumphantly above him.
“Shhhh! (*grunt, umph*)” I manage to throw my other arm over the top of the wall, fight for every inch, and pull myself up. I straddle the wall, panting. Ernesto is doubled over with laughter. “You have the alligatori dancing ballet on your pants?” he sputters. I blush. Rosalie has given me silly animal socks and underwear since I was a kid. We both love animals doing crazy things. (Fine, three things in common.)
“I didn’t expect anyone to be seeing my panties tonight, okay?” I whisper-shout back. I look down over the other side of the wall. Shit. It’s a long, hard drop. There’s a tree I could climb down about fifteen yards away, but getting to it involves walking the wall like a circus performer, standing up, and leaping. The ground on the right side drops to steep hillside. I doubt I could even do it sober, which I am not.
“It’s too far down. I’ll break my leg or something,” I whisper-shout down to him.
“Allora come down. I will take you somewhere,” he whisper-shouts back.
“What? Where?”
“To hang out. We will have del vino o gelato. To talk about Hemming-way.”
“You want to discuss Hemingway at midnight?”
“Mezzanotte a Roma is early, bella,” he laughs.
“Maybe I can make it to that tree.” I point, knowing I can’t.
“No, dio mio!” He stops laughing. “Bella, jump down. I catch you.” Ernesto opens his arms. I size him up. He’s a short, skinny Italian guy. I’ll crush him into the ground like a nail into a board. He smiles up at me. “Kick your feet up when you jumping. Alligatori pants first!” He grins, his dimple winking at me. What a goof. He’s seriously adorable. I bend my knees like I’m on a diving board. “Uno, due . . .”
WHAM! He does catch me, but I’m heavier than he realizes and we both land in a heap on the ground. Our heads knock together on impact. I’m still on top of him as he sits up. My wrist throbs, my head spins. I see blood on my hand. I freak out.
“Oh, God, I’m bleeding. I broke something.” I frantically search my hands, arms, nothing. Then, I see blood on his upper lip. “You’re bleeding! I broke you! I knocked your teeth! Oh God. I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” Then, suddenly, I’m crying.
“No, no tutto bene, bella. I’m fine. Just my nose.” He sniffs a bit and wipes the blood from his nose. I cup his chin in my hands, trying to examine his nose through my tears. “I’m fine. Tutto bene. See?” Ernesto wipes my face and then—he’s kissing me. Warm, soft, salty kisses. He wraps me in his arms. His lips gently pry mine apart as his kisses grow deeper and his tongue meets mine playfully.
Sitting in his lap with my legs on either side, I relax into his embrace, kissing him back. My breathing slows but not my heart. I can once again smell the garlic and sweat on his skin. Garlic never smelled so damn good. It’s earthy and sensual and comforting and sexy. I want to swallow him up. I can feel his heart beating hard against my chest, which is pressed tightly to him. Ernesto is a well-practiced kisser. He runs one hand through my hair, the other down my back, and then he slips it under my ass, squeezing me gently. Feeling his grip on my ass, I automatically tilt my hips into his. He slides the strap of my little black dress off my shoulder, and I feel his hot, quick breath on my neck, and then my chest. His lips gently brush just the top of my left breast, teasing me. Then, lying backward, he pulls me down on top of him, still kissing me, my legs straddled around him. His tongue owns my mouth. His hand slips into to the top of my dress, and I feel his warm fingers around my breast. My whole body tingles. I want more. My hands find the snap on his pants and then—
“No fornicating on holy ground!” shouts a voice from somewhere deep inside me. It’s Modesty. How did she find me here? Who invited her on this trip? She is my mother’s bestie, not mine. But the damage is done. I am no longer tingling all over.
“Wait, we can’t.” I sit suddenly up.
“Perché?” Ernesto sits up too but continues kissing my neck. That feels good. He kisses my breast. Oh God, that really feels good. God? Right. I’m sitting outside a convent! Definitely not buono.
“This is holy ground.” I pull my shoulder strap back up. He pulls it back down with his teeth, grinning at me. He is seriously adorable. “Aren’t you Catholic?” I ask.
“Così così.” He blows hot breath down into my cleavage, sending a shiver through me. Okay, I really d
on’t want to end this party. But we can’t get into my room.
“Why don’t we go to your house?” I suggest.
“Why?” He laughs. “You want to meet my mother?”
“You live with your mother?” I slip my strap back up. “My whole family,” he says. “Don’t you?”
“Actually, yes. I do live with my mother now. I graduated college last year.”
“I am just twenty-three.”
“I’m twenty-four,” I say.
“Come, I will show you a beautiful place.” Ernesto stands and reaches down for my hand. “Then we can sleep under the stars.” I consider this. What else am I going to do? Curl up on the doorstep of this convent like a stray cat? If you’re going to sleep under the stars in Italy, why do it alone?
Villa Aventine Hill, Roma: Saturday, 12:51 a.m.
We pull up next to a Cathedral of Santa Maria del Priorato. Another church? He seems to have misunderstood. The point was to get off of holy ground before fornicating. But, in Rome, that may be hard—there are over nine hundred of them.
“This is the priory for the Knights of Malta. But we don’t go in.” Ernesto takes me by the hand and leads me down a dirt path along an ancient wall. We come to a closed door. It looks like an ordinary wooden door, with big circular knockers.
“Look through,” my Italian Hemming-way says with the expectant joy you have when you’re waiting for someone to open a present. I notice the worn areas in the wood and highly polished brass around the keyhole. Many hands, noses, and cheeks have been here before mine. I smile and bend down to take a look. It’s a postcard perfect view of St. Peter’s and Rome, perfectly framed by the garden bushes on the other side and the keyhole itself.
“Wow. That’s amazing. Like a tiny snow globe without the snow,” I smile. Ernesto smiles proudly. “What a perfect gift on my first night in Rome.”
“Your first night?” he asks. I nod. “Ever?” he says incredulously. I nod again. He smiles bigger. Taking my hand, he leads me around into the Giardino degli Aranci through a different gate. Now all of Rome, with her lit domes, shadowy stone monuments, and red rooftops, is visible, stretched out between her seven hills. He pulls me to him, wraps his arms around me, and with his face close to mine, points things out in the distance.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 4