Ordinary World (12 page)

“Fine, then. It’s not what
I
want. It’s not what your students want. It’s not what your friends and family want. It’s not what Rhetoric and Composition wants. We
need
you. Please,” she cried.

I paused for a long beat. “I’ll think about it,” I said, and hung up moments later.

“She doesn’t understand,” I said aloud, and immediately felt ashamed of myself for even thinking such a thing, much less saying it. Maybe she was right about self-absorption. I felt ugly at that moment.

Melody agreed with Mags all the way. Maggie even called the travel agency herself and explained the situation. They said they would transfer the tickets to any date I wanted. Miranda offered to house-sit and look after Donny Most. I re-booked the trip for the week of spring break week next semester.

Sometimes I even found myself looking forward to it.

Chapter Fifteen

Five months later

March – Spring Break

I’
D SPENT THE LAST FOUR MONTHS TRYING TO LEARN conversational Italian without much luck; all my intermediate Spanish from my college days kept creeping in. Piero let me sit in on his Italian 101 class whenever I wanted. He had a glorious accent, which, I noticed, distracted many of his female students and one of the males who was gay. They all swooned while he conjugated verbs pertaining to dining out. (“What can I bring you?” “Do you have any wine?” “I want to eat spaghetti and meatballs.”) He was also very handsome and looked a little like Hugh Jackman with jet-black hair. One day, to my surprise, I caught myself thinking about him conjugating verbs with his shirt off.

I decided it was imperative to learn some key phrases:
“Where’s the bathroom?” “Where can I buy bottled water?” “No wine, please—it makes me ill.” “I am trying to find my hotel, Ecco Roma.”
And
“On behalf of my country, I apologize for Starbucks.”

Miranda told me to buy cheap cotton underwear and throw them out every day so I wouldn’t have to worry about going through customs with a suitcase full of dirty panties on the way home. I packed all of my jeans and Sam’s shirts and sweaters and his aviator jacket—I had taken to wearing his clothes on a regular basis. It killed me to have to wash them; I didn’t want to lose the smell of him. Buy shoes once I’m there, Miranda said. Shoes and a leather jacket.

Melody tried to ease my mind about flying with no success. The furthest I had ever flown was to San Francisco for a conference, and that was three years ago. I nearly hyperventilated when the plane hit some turbulence. Even Sam’s holding my hand and steady voice were not enough to comfort me. Since then, I insisted on attending conferences via train if the driving distance was too far. For our honeymoon, Sam and I had driven up to Canada. On the way home we were ready to kill each other. Funny, I had forgotten about that. Fourteen hours in the car was enough for both of us to seriously consider getting an annulment.

Melody gave me a mediation CD, a homeopathic remedy, and mantras to silently recite on the plane. I bought two packs of Dramamine, two packs of gum, and downloaded all of my Nat King Cole CDs, Italian language tutorials, and the meditation into my iPod. I also wrote my will on my laptop, but didn’t get it notarized. At first, in a bout of silliness, I left everything to the cat. Then I left it all to my mother with instructions to let her sort it out.

Miranda drove me to Logan airport. Piero accompanied us and gave me a list of places to go as well as a couple of letters to deliver for him. He also kissed me on both cheeks which, again to my surprise, sent a quick flash of heat up my spine. Miranda hugged me. Maggie had called the night before to wish me well.

“I wish you were going with me,” I practically whimpered.

“You’ll be fine. You need to do this on your own.”

I took two Dramamine thirty minutes before my flight was called. As I walked through the corridor to the plane, my knees weakened with panic. Just as I stepped onto the plane, I froze.

“Are you okay, Miss?” the flight attendant asked. He was an effeminate man named Stefano. “My goodness, you’re white as a sheet.”

“Oh God, I can’t do this,” I said. I’m going to pass out, I just know it. I wasn’t sure if I said this aloud or not.

“First time flying?” he asked.

“Might as well be.”

Stefano took me by the arm and led me to first class and another flight attendant. Apparently Sam had pulled out all the stops when he booked the original trip—first class all the way. (The travel agency told me where he had booked our hotel stay and my cousin, the Italian teacher, called to explain the situation. The hotel manager was so moved by the story that he not only rebooked the reservation, but comp’ed four out of the seven days—
una storia d’amore
—a love story, he said.) The other attendant was a woman named Judy. Stefano told her I needed “extra care.” She asked me if I wanted a drink. God, how I wished I drank at that moment.

“No thanks, but if you could get someone to hit me with a blunt object, I would appreciate it.”

She called me “honey” and assured me that I’d be okay. I took out my iPod and listened to the meditation that Melody gave me.

I am at peace with the plane… I am at peace with the plane… I am at peace with the plane…

Bullshit…Bullshit…Bullshit…

I completely trust the flow of the universe… I completely trust the flow of the universe… I completely trust the flow of the universe…

I want to see the pilot’s credentials… I want to see the pilot’s credentials…I want to see the pilot’s credentials…

The engines revved.

I took out Sam’s picture, one of him outside of FenwayPark, before a Yankees-Red Sox game. The Sox had lost that day. He was much happier in the picture. He sported a devilish grin underneath his faded blue, well-worn Boston cap. I could almost hear him speak to me now: “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. I’ll land the plane if anything goes wrong. I’ve watched sitcoms—it’s easy.” His grin comforted me.

As the plane took off, I made the passenger sitting next to me hold my hand until he assured me that we were safe and politely mentioned that he wanted to read his book. Apparently he’d had enough of Crazy Lady and her vice grip. Stefano promised that either he or Judy would check on me regularly, which they did. The movie was a Tom Hanks film—not
Cast Away
, thank God. When the meal was served, I tried to eat. Then I took a second dose of Dramamine and managed to fall asleep with an Italian language tutorial crooning me on my iPod.
Il mio nome e Giovanni. Da dove sei venuto?...
My name is Giovanni. Where are you from?

By landing time, Stefano and another passenger sat on either side of me, holding my hands. When I exited the plane, the same knee-weakening feeling overcame me.

“You’re going to be fine, honey,” said Judy.

“Don’t drink the water unless it’s bottled,” said Stefano.

“Gucci,” said the passenger. “Buy Gucci.”

A driver who spoke broken English met me and took me to my hotel—Sam really had thought of everything. I took a deep, brave breath and stepped out of the airport and onto the bright, sunny streets of Rome. If only he had thought to live long enough to be here with me.

Chapter Sixteen

Days one and two in Italy

B
ELLISSIMA.

Everything—and I mean everything—in Italy is
bellissima
. Beautiful. The people. The cars. The flowers. The fountains. The streets. The hotels. The food. Everything.

Men looked at me and greeted me with “
Bellissima!
” (And this was me wearing no makeup, oversized sweatshirts, jeans, and Keds.) Venders pointed to their merchandise and said, “
Bellissima
, no?” A child pointed to a pigeon pecking at seed by a fountain and exclaimed, “Mama!
Bellissima!
”

I wished Sam had booked a tour, but I know why he didn’t—he would’ve felt rushed if he was being told when to get on and off the bus, how much free time we had, what to look at on our right, our left, above us, etcetera. We were similar in that nature—we wanted enough structure and routine to keep us grounded, but enough independence to do as we pleased. But recently, with time a boulder too heavy for me to move, my every waking minute on a schedule would’ve been a good thing for me, especially since I didn’t know anyone and could barely speak the language.

On the day I arrived, I settled in at the hotel with registration, unpacking, adjusting to the time change, and figuring out how the plumbing and phones worked. Everything in Italy looked so organic, as if the buildings had grown out of the earth as opposed to being built—modern technology like WiFi seemed to stick out like a sore thumb.

Jet lag caught up to me quickly, and I slept for hours. The anxiety from my flight had taken the rest of my energy.

The next day, I set out for my first destination: a museum. The
Museo Nazionale Etrusco
, to be exact. A map and my Italian-English dictionary in hand, I walked the streets and hailed a cab and tried to absorb every sight and smell and sound—hard to do when you’ve been living your life by making a conscious effort to be numb. Everything smelled like a combination of freshly baked bread (except, of course, when I passed a flower stand) and bus fumes to me. The museum was glorious; the architecture of the Villa Giulia alone was awesome. God, how I wished Sam were with me. I saw a sculpture that had been on loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art years ago for an exhibit that I had seen with Devin. He had been very good at explaining the Italian artists, in particular the Renaissance painters and their use of light and tone. I knew enough to know that this sculpture was definitely not from the Renaissance.

During siesta, I took a bus to one of the piazzas, sat on the steps, and people-watched, thinking, hoping that maybe Sam would appear in a fisherman sweater and blue jeans and his Red Sox cap. He’d just walk up to me, as if the last year had never happened, and say, “Hey, Sweetheart.” Then he’d take out a little box with an anniversary band in it, just like those diamond commercials on TV. And we’d kiss and everyone would applaud our love…

God, how pathetic could I get?

After siesta, I looked through my tour book for other sights, but stayed within the vicinity of my hotel and window shopped, feeling lonelier by the second.

By evening, I went back to my room, watched a little bit of television to help me with the language, and wrote in my journal. I couldn’t get through two sentences without including a reference to Sam. I completed the entry; but then, after a moment’s thought, added a declarative sentence in block caps:

I NEED TO GET LAID.

I underlined it twice. Then I said it out loud.

“Buona sera, Amore,” I said to Sam’s picture, which I had placed on the bedside table closest to me. I turned out the light and stared at the stucco ceiling. I actually heard an accordion in the distance.

***

The next day, I went to a café and wrote in my journal again. This time I attempted a list of anniversary goals, as I had been promising Melody I would do. “Stop eating crap” was the most ambitious I was willing to get for the moment. I also went window shopping and looked at Italian fashion. The shoes were to die for. I didn’t dare try anything on. Later in the day, I got blisters on the soles of my feet while trying to find another museum that Piero had recommended. My water bottle empty, map in disarray, and Italian-English book stuck at the bottom of my backpack, a cool panic began to settle into my stomach. I was completely lost. Plus I needed a bathroom.

“Perdona mi, donde es al bagno?” I asked a friendly-looking woman, realizing too late that I asked part of the question in Spanish. The woman could’ve easily taken me for one of those students backpacking across Europe on five dollars a day were it not for the strands of gray hair sticking to and framing my face. However, she smiled in comprehension and gave me directions, speaking slowly and annunciating as if speaking to a child.

“Grazie,” I said.

“Are you OK?” she asked in a heavy accent.

My backpack felt like a ton of bricks. My feet were killing me. I was hot and sweaty and dehydrated and hungry and lost in a foreign city and my husband was dead.