When he called and told me we had the choice to fly Boston to Rome through London’s Heathrow Airport or through Dublin Airport in Ireland, I picked London, of course. The Irish have no sophistication, m’ija, you know that. You’ve been to Southie. I wish there was a direct flight from Boston to Rome, but there’s not. We probably could have gotten a direct flight from New York, and that would have been so much easier, but I didn’t bring it up. Juan doesn’t really think about practical things. He’s always obsessing about work, trying to come up with a new way to make his programs run better. Sometimes you actually have to shake him to get him to hear you talking.
So here we are, on the last leg of the trip, from London to Rome. I’ve been on planes for the last twelve hours. That’s twelve, m’ija, with a one and a two. Twelve hours of trying to get comfortable in these little seats because Juan couldn’t get first class for us. Twelve hours of my feet falling asleep in these pointy red St. Johns; I’ve got a wide foot, but I can’t bear to wear wide shoes, especially not in red. Twelve hours without a real bathroom or a real meal. Twelve hours listening to case stories about the men Juan helps at his rehab center. David, who was strung out for nearly twenty years but who now holds down a job at Wendy’s and has been sober for a full year. Luis, whose house caught fire from him smoking crack in bed and nearly burned to death, who is now a sanitation department worker and got clean and found a nice girlfriend. On and on. There are lots of happy endings. He likes those the best. But there are sad ones, too. I don’t mind listening to the stories. I know I always say I wanted to leave the ‘hood, and I did. I wouldn’t go back there for all the riches in the world.
I admire what Juan does. He has a degree in civil engineering from Northeastern and could have done any number of other things to bolster his social standing, but he made the hard choice to forgo a higher standard of living in order to give back to nuestra comunidad. He’s explained all that to me, and I understand it. It’s the same with me. I’ve had offers from for-profit firms to do the same kind of work I do at the United Way, believe me. They pay almost double what I make now. But I’m probably more like Juan than anyone realizes; I need to feel like the work I’m doing matters. But I still earn more than four times what that boy makes. It’s sad, girl.
I fill him in on all this media nonsense about Elizabeth being a lesbian. She’s worried she won’t get the big national job because Rupert Mandrake, head of the network’s parent company, is some big “family values”—meaning lesbian-hating—crusader. People are so stupid. I called her and told her I didn’t care. I don’t. It doesn’t matter to me who my sucias sleep with, as long as they treat my girls right. I asked her if that little-boys-don’t-cry-looking poet of hers was good to her. She said yes, and I said that was all that mattered. She thanked me and started to sob and said that Sara won’t talk to her.
“That’s so stupid,” Juan says. “Sara’s a bitch.”
“They were best friends. It’s weird.”
“Makes you wonder if they weren’t more than best friends once, doesn’t it?” Juan asks. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Seriously doubt it. Sara’s really conservative.”
Elizabeth said Lauren was being supportive, and so was Amber. She hadn’t talked to Rebecca yet, but I’m sure she won’t be mean, even if she doesn’t approve, because she’s not rude to anyone. She ran a story in Ella once about lesbian Latinas.
Lauren is the rudest of all of us. Even I’m getting sick of the way that girl drinks too much and lectures everyone all the time like we don’t know our own history. It’s the gringa in her, I think, that makes her like that, a big know-it-all that gives you a headache just being around her. Juan and I talk about life and art and politics and our families and everything else in the world. That’s the best thing about us, the way we talk. If he were a woman, he’d be my best friend. I might even let myself cry in front of him, if he were a girl.
We finally land in Rome. It’s just turned morning. I’m so tired all I want is to take a cab to a cushy hotel, get a little room service, and fall asleep. Juan has other plans. He has decided to rent a car and try to drive us around Rome himself. He has never been to Rome, m’ija. He acts surprised when he sees that the steering wheel on our sad little green Fiat is on the right. Dang, the cars here are small! Plus, he hasn’t slept in a day, his contact lenses have irritated his eyes so much they look like someone poured battery acid in them. He forgot to bring saline solution and doesn’t want to take his lenses off and put his glasses on because they’re the only contact lenses he brought. Sad as hell.
I don’t have to tell you that Rome is one of the biggest cities in Europe and, as we soon find out, not only has different traffic laws than we do in the United States, but is also entangled in dozens of massive reconstruction projects at many of its historic locations. We sit in unmoving traffic more aggressive and horrible than any I’ve ever seen, with people gesticulating at one another from their little motor scooters and taxicabs. All they seem to do is shout here and wave their big hairy arms. Even the women have hairy arms. Haven’t they heard of hot wax? Hello? It gives me the worst headache I’ve ever had, a pinching right here in the front. It even seems like the shopkeepers and workers on the street enjoy screaming in their horrible little language as loud as they can, just to annoy me. They sound like they’re speaking retarded Spanish. I thought Puerto Rico was loud. It’s nothing compared to Rome.
It takes us three hours just to find the neighborhood where our hotel is supposed to be, because Juan keeps taking wrong turns and thinking he can understand enough Italian to get directions from people who have no idea what he’s saying to them. He’s too proud to admit he doesn’t know what he’s doing, m’ija. And I’m still being too nice to criticize him. I’m serious. We finally find the place, thanks to some Romans who speak this singsongy Spanish, but once we do, I start to wish we were back in the traffic again.
I’m expecting something else. I know I shouldn’t complain, but I’m accustomed to a certain level of comfort. I know the trip was free for me, and Juan is trying to be nice for Valentine’s Day—a month early. I didn’t even complain that he thought we should go to Rome in January, when it’s cold and dreary. I’ve tried to be patient and nice with the boy.
But, m’ija, I’m not used to the kind of hotel Juan has booked for us. I travel all the time for work, and you know the types of places I have Travis book for me. I mean, Juan should have known from the name alone that this wasn’t going to be a very nice place. The “Aberdeen Hotel.” Who goes to Rome and stays in the Aberdeen anything? I swear. It sounds like something you’d find tucked behind a meat processing plant in Duluth. The view out the front of the building is of the Italian Ministry of Defense. How romantic, right, m’ija? The hotel is small, it’s dingy, smelling like antiseptic and irritable bowels. I’m so tired I don’t have the energy to protest. I follow Juan up to our little room with the one battered-looking queen-sized bed, my feet aching.
“No way,” I say when I see the bed.
“What?”
“I’m not sleeping with you. You know that. We need a room with two beds. Get us a room with two beds.” I sit on the little lumpy chair and give him the guilt face.
Juan’s shoulders sag and he rubs his eyes. One of his disposable contact lenses pops out and falls on the floor. He gets on his hands and knees and starts patting the stained, hard carpet with that Mr. Magoo look.
“You’ll get a disease if you put that thing back in your eye,” I say.
“Fine. Whatever you say.” He removes the other contact lens and drops it on the floor, too, then takes his glasses out of his suitcase and puts them on. He takes them off, and rubs the bridge of his nose. He sighs. He has that blurry look he gets when he can’t see where he’s going. “Can you just wait until tomorrow, Navi? We’re both tired. I’m not going to try anything, I promise. Let’s just get some rest.”
“Two beds.” I hold up two fingers.
He leaves me in the
room and returns fifteen minutes later with another key. We go to the new room with its two beds. Twin sized. I’m not a small woman. Italian twin beds, like everything in Europe, from the clothes to the portions at restaurants to the people themselves, are smaller than the American equivalent. I don’t know how I’m supposed to sleep on this thing; it’s like a tightrope. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to make Juan feel any worse than he already does. There’s not even a bellhop, so Juan has to go back to the car to get my bags. While he does, I check out the bathroom and the closet. Very bland and functional and not luxurious at all. I won’t be able to use my hair dryer and my curling iron because they use some crazy-looking electric outlets in Rome, m’ija. There’s no hotel-provided dryer either, of course. You know how these hairy Italian women are, they like to drip dry, wild and untamed. I’m going to look like a poodle with electric shock unless Juan figures out a solution. I’m going to look like Buckwheat’s sister. I need to have a serious talk with him.
I’m so tired, though. I wait until Juan brings the suitcase with my lingerie in it, remove my silk pajamas, light blue with a matching robe, and change in the awful blue light of the bathroom. Without a word to Juan, I crawl into my squeaky little bed and fall asleep with the chiggers. When I wake up later in the day, I find Juan has already been out scouting around for some food, and has set up a little meal for us on the rickety table. He’s brought Italian-style pizza, which is really different from American pizza because it’s very flat and doesn’t really have much cheese, some cold pasta dishes, and a fresh salad. He bought wine and bottled water, and a few fresh flowers he has put in the smudgy short glass from the bathroom. He’s even brought some Italian pastries in a little white box tied up with string like a present.
“Would you like me to serve you?” he asks.
I get up and join him at the table and apologize for being so snippy to him earlier. He says he understands because we’re both just tired. “But you better find an adapter for that outlet in the bathroom,” I tell him. “I can’t go out in public without being able to use my curling iron.”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
The food is delicious and I decide I won’t demand that he find us a new hotel. I’ve lived in worse housing than this—for most of my childhood in fact—so I can handle it. I’m not pleased, and I want him to know I’m not pleased, but I’m not going to intentionally try to hurt him, either. That would be rude.
After we eat, we take turns showering and getting dressed. I choose a simple black dress and heels, topping the ensemble with a shawl. I beg him not to make that same mistake with the hair and clothes, and pick out something decent for him to wear from his suitcase. Juan has made plans for us to see a concert tonight at a jazz club in a trendy part of Rome. I insist that this time we take a cab, and he looks uneasy. I know it’s probably because he budgeted the whole trip down to the last lira. I tell him I’ll pay for the cab, and he reluctantly agrees. We hit the ATM machine next door and find a cab. He says he has a friend who told him the club has salsa dancing upstairs. When we get there we see that it’s true. And, guess what? There are tons of Puerto Ricans there! I can’t believe it. It’s like we never left Boston. We dance most of the night, then cab it back to the dungeon. I’ve had a good time in spite of myself, and I even allow Juan to be physical with me, though we don’t go all the way and I make him give me a foot massage first.
The next day, he’s up early again, foraging for an adapter for that stupid outlet, and scrounging for fruit and bread and cheese and coffee for breakfast, which he serves me in bed. I shower and get dressed. I choose a black and white Escada twin set with matching black pants. I add black and white Blahnik flats and a luxurious alpaca wool black Giuliana Teso cape (made in Italy, of course) and my sunglasses. I put on a pair of black leather gloves, and transfer my wallet and cell phone to a smooth leather Furla, in black and white.
Then he lays out the day’s itinerary. We’re to go to the Forum and see the Colosseum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the House of Vestals, and all of that sort of thing. Walking. All of it walking, girl. Ay, no, m’ija.
“I hope you brought some comfortable shoes,” he says with a wry smile. “I don’t think you should wear those.” He points a shaking finger at my feet.
I did not bring “comfortable” shoes. Sorry. I don’t wear the types of shoes other people refer to as comfortable. Nor do I own a pair of jeans. Growing up, my mother taught me that girls didn’t wear sneakers or pants, and though I resented it at the time (I wasn’t allowed to learn how to ride a bike, either) I have come to feel I must have attractive, ladylike shoes on at all times.
“What’s wrong with these?”
“We’re walking, Navi,” he tells me. “They look like torture chambers.”
I say nothing. Outside, the sky grows cloudy. I don’t change shoes, in spite of his repeated admonishments. He gives up, saying, “Whatever you want. They’re your feet.”
Of course, he wants to drive again, because he thinks the Forum is too far from the hotel for a cab. I don’t say anything. He looks over his little map and does the best he can, and I spend the whole ride holding on to the roof and the door and the dashboard because it feels like at any moment we will be crushed by a crazed Italian driver. He parks at a lot designed for tourists and I notice the price of parking is almost as high as what I figure a taxi would have cost us. I keep my mouth closed. By the time we get out of the car, it has started to sprinkle. Good thing I brought an umbrella, because Lord knows the boy didn’t think of anything practical like that himself.
Juan takes his little cheap dusty camera and starts snapping pictures of everything. I follow him around and try to keep up. It’s hard for me, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps running back to whatever spot I’ve chosen to sit down, babbling about the history and the “atmosphere.” Then, he says he wants to climb the Palatino, this big hill where the wealthy used to build their houses. Climb, girl. I can barely walk, and he wants to climb things. I tell him I’ll wait for him down below, near the Arch of Titus.
“Are you sure?” he asks. I look around me. A tour bus full of bluehairs from Nevada has just arrived, yakking in their awful hickish way.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say. The rain is getting heavier. “I’m having a great time, Juan. Don’t you worry about me. I love all these old buildings and old people.”
Juan shakes his head and sighs. “Come on, Navi,” he says. “This is such an incredible place. Let’s just go up and take a look around. They say the view from the top is fantastic.”
“No, thanks.”
“Never mind,” he says. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t want you here all alone. Plus, it’s raining.”
“Oh, is it?” I ask, sarcastic. I’m sorry, Lauren, I think. I can’t keep that promise I made you, m’ija. I’m hungry and wet and tired, and my alpaca cape is starting to smell like a wet dog.
“Maybe we still have time to see the Vatican today,” he suggests. I shrug. He holds his hand out for me to help me up, then tries to hug and kiss me, saying something stupid about how romantic Italy can be in the rain. I’m cold. I’m hungry. My feet hurt. I push him away.
We go back to the car in the overpriced lot. Juan asks the parking attendant how to get to the Vatican in his bad Italian and the man fires off directions so fast my head spins. Juan thanks him, and pulls out into the kamikaze traffic once again.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask him. I am certain he does not.
“Sure,” he says, trying to seem cheerful. He raises a fist, like someone who has just said “Onward Ho,” and cries, “To the Vatican! To see the pope!”
My stomach growls so loud, he can hear it. He looks at me, then hits himself on the forehead with his palm. “Oh, Navi, I’m sorry,” he says, looking at his watch. “It’s past lunchtime. I’m all thrown off from the time change. You hungry?” He hardly ever eats, and he’s skinny. So of course he forgot food. I mean, we’re only in Rome
. Who wants to eat there?
I don’t say anything. I just glare at him and hope he understands how unhappy I am with this whole day. He gulps, and then asks if I’m hungry, again. I hiss at him. “What do you think?”
He starts turning at random corners in that flimsy little car, dodging stray dogs and cats and children, trying to find a restaurant. He stops at the first one that appeals to him. It’s a run-down-looking trattoria in the middle of a nondescript residential block, with sorry-looking old men sitting around inside attached to cigars and watching a soccer match on an old black and white television. Juan manages to park the car nearby, and when we enter, everyone turns to stare. What’s the matter, I want to say, haven’t you ever seen a lady with taste and style before? God. Juan looks pleased, as if he has just found a hidden treasure.
He asks me what I want and I tell him I don’t know because I don’t understand the “menu”—a powdery old blackboard with all those stupid Italian words on it. A woman with deep circles around her eyes and a litter of dirty-faced children scampering around pulling on her apron tries to understand what Juan is saying and a few minutes later brings us a couple of plates with something that looks like meat and pasta. I eat it. It’s not half bad, actually, but it’s no five-star situation. The water glass is greasy, like the one in the “hotel.”
The Dirty Girls Social Club Page 15