My Second Italian Police Report

Maybe I like masochism a little more than I know, or I just have no shame anymore, but I promised that I'd write about the ultimate roman baptism, when enough time had passed for it to be funny. Funnt and not too embarassing to admit. I think it might be funny now, but the memory of it still stings a bit when I think about all that I lost and all the money I've pumped into the world economy since then (to recoup my losses of course) because somebody coveted my all-time favorite brown leather bag from TopShop.

Thursday August 11th...After dinner and drinks with a 'friend' we took a stroll in the waining light of the Roman summer evening to the steps of the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore, one of four churches in Rome which is actually Vatican property and thus part of Vatican City. Ah the holiest of lands. We sat ourselves down on the steps of the church, the piazza was salt and peppered with people, and clouds were moving in to give us a little sprinkle. Now imagine, if you will, the Napolitano and I doing what people do after dinner and drinks...discussing world politics, religion, and the state of the Italian economy, of course all in Italian. After a few minutes passed I noticed my trusty, carry-everything bag a few inches from my person and moved it closer to me. Our conversation contiued. Another ten or fifteen minutes went by and the rain, while in movies is romantic, was starting to get a little annoying. We decided it was time to go. I turned to my right, and it was gone. I stood up, not believing what I wasn't seeing and started to get visibly agitated. The Napolitano of course had no clue what was going on. He asked if I had left my bag at the restaurant...of course I hadn't. We both looked around the piazza in bewilderment. When he didn't immediately jump in and be the heroic man that I needed (yes we still need the white horse and the armor and all that), I started directing. I ordered him to go around the right side of the church, I would go on the left and we'd meet on the other side. I went to the left looking in corners of buildings, down alleys, in trash cans, in dumpsters, nothing. I gave some people some very nasty looks, as if the culprit had stayed around to watch my horror unfold. I reached the other side of the church where there were many more lovers discussing politics and religion on the steps. The Napolitano met me. By now, I was getting upset. Holding back tears like every woman should, the Napolitano tried to console me. At first I was glad for it, but then when trying not to cry and being inspected for tonsilitis simultaneously became a chore, I wanted to do anything to be alone.

We returned to our side of the church and stood around the piazza for a while longer, asking people if they had seen anything, of course they hadn't. I decided it was time to figure out what my next move should be. My roommate was out of town for two days, many of my friends were traveling around Europe or the States, and my one friend in town whom I had lunch with earlier that day had had plans to go to the ballet this evening. I had no where to go, no money to go anywhere. As the reality of the situation became clearer, I could feel hysteria growing inside me. The Napolitano and I headed toward the train station where he was to take a train back to his army base and I, well who knows what I was to do. I suppose I shouldn't criticize him for his efforts but the crowning glory of his chivalry turned me completely off, if one could be in the state of being turned on in a situation like that to begin with. I decided to return to Emily's house, my friend whom I'd been with earlier. I informed the Napolitano of my plan, to which he scrawled his phone number on a piece of paper (an act completely alien to those of us who only ever use cellphones for such transactions as giving phone numbers: i had to carefully make sure that the tiny piece of paper didn't get lost in my pockets or fall out somewhere on the bus), gave me six euros, and sent me on my way.

Now here's the only time in a woman's life when 'no means yes.' I didn't actually get the chance to say no however. Mr. Napolitano asked where I was going and what bus I would take to get there. I told him. There was no offer of, 'Can I walk you across the piazza to the bus?' or 'Can I accompany you to your friend's house?' As much as I thought I wanted to be alone, a walk to the proper bus-stop or a ride on the bus to Emily's with a man- security blanket would have been nice. I learned something about my own frailty that day. For however strong and independent I may be, nothing beats the embrace of another human being in bad times, or in good. But there was not to be a comforting bus ride, because the Napolitano turned around and walked away just as soon as I started toward the bus.

I reached the bus and since Piazza Cinquecento, at Termini, is the capolinea for about 50 buslines I had the pleasure of sitting on the bus for about 15 minutes before actually went anywhere. Those fifteen minutes and the entire bus ride to Emily's house consisted solely of me trying not to make a scene of myself on the bus. I arrived at Emily's hoping and praying that she and her boyfriend Simone would be at home. Since it had rained earlier I had an idea that their plan to go to the ballet hadn't panned out: it was an outdoor showing of swan lake and I'm sure the swans didn't really want to be dancing in a lake. I approached the citofono of Emily and Simone's building, saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers, pressed the button and waited. Silence. Shit. Visions of sleeping at the train station shot through my brain, stinging. Then a voice, loud, jovial, and possibly intoxicated: 'Valerio?' It was Simone. There is something unmistakenly comforting about him. Like a big brother almost.

Simone was suprised to hear my voice, maybe a little disappointed that I wasn't his buddy arriving to do guy things with him, but he buzzed me up. I got into the elevator and four floors alone in a tiny box was enough to start the tears flowing again. The elevator stopped and I opened the doors, Emily was already standing in the doorway of their apartment. Tears streaming down my face, I explained that I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

Emily was great. She was like a Mommy that I had run home to after getting beat up on the playground. A Mommy that gave me a beer, internet access to cancel my bank and credit cards, and then watched a movie with me until it was time to go to bed.

After writing all of this, it occurs to me that this is the diary of a poor spoiled rich girl (by western standards of course) whose never known real hardship in her life. Although in any case its pretty damn scary to have everything that connects you to your own reality taken away without notice. I definitely have had to rethink my dependence on material things, not to mention electronics.

There is much more to the story: the heroics of Simone, the incredible hospitality of Emily, my parents' unwaivering support and love, and the epilogue to the story of the Napolitano (it's quite short actually), but I'll save that for conversation over a fat plate of spaghetti carbonara and a glass (or four) of red wine.