Finding your way around Rome without knowing a syllable of Italian is not the best way to get where you're going. According to my plan, I was to get off at Termini Depot and get on the number 78 bus. How was I to know there was more than one station? Off I stepped, and there was no number 78 bus. There was 75 and 77 and 101 and taxis everywhere. I was in a panic. Knowing English is the only language worth knowing, I got up in a guy's face and yelled, "is this Termini?!!" His interpretation of it was " bluh bluh Termini?!!" He responded, "zhumdeleploomasporiostenmasaholgerturmanus." Shit, I was lost. To me, I was betrayed. How could these mumbling idiots not accommodate my needs?
I paced the floor in the international passive-aggressive lost American pose; it worked. A bilingual, girlfriend-stealing, station stud asked where I was heading. He let me know I needed to get back on the original train and go to the next stop. Ahh, clarity. Once at Termini, I got in line to buy a week's worth of public transport tickets. For twelve bucks you can ride for a seven day period to all points around Rome. The ticket counter guy got real brave from being behind the glass wall. He would shout and shudder through gritted government teeth; pounding his fists with 300 stunned people staring at him. The cops would mosey up and ask what was "wrong." He was playing the game called, "now I've got you, you son-of-a bitch." A created misunderstanding made him the smartest guy there, so smart that he could have the police come over to validate his position. When my turn came, I knew I would be ten times worse than him; just to be a hero to the ulcerated tourists he had dumped on. Had this sleazy greaseball pulled anything on me, I was going to fake a grand-mal seizure and levitate over the counter to watch him scream like a girl. There was no incident.
Bus 78 took me to a station where it would be a short taxi ride to my final destination. I staggered up to mohawk in a mirror taxi-man, showing him the address of the house I'd be staying at. " Hmmm, 31 Tito Poggi, I think I know where that is." He whipped out a wrinkled map and pored over it like a gold miner with two days to live. What an act. I knew I was going to take it up the butt. So what if I get to see the Kremlin along the way? It was, as the crow flies, four miles to the house. He charged me 28.00, a mere seven bucks a mile to find a hot and a cot. I tipped him nothing, just so he knew I knew he knew.
How will these homeowners react to the ex-trucker? Ding-Dong. The hinges spoke in Margaret Hamiltonese: "eeeeeeeeeeeee." I chameleoned into innocence. "Why hello, are you Steve?" (It had cost me 714.00, to that point, to have a European greet me with my name). "Yes." She was so beautiful that I wanted a team of loofa scrubbing midgets to drop from the trees, to abrade the epi from my dermis. She was Sophia Loren, Leslie Ann Warren and an eternal butt massage all in one. Her house wafted of two-day diarrhea inducing coffees, nutmeg and dark furniture oils. Tori Amos tunes, at micro-managed volume, came from every direction. Was she here? "My husband (dammit) Pierluco will take you to the apartment."
I had been awake for 31 straight hours. I had been singled-out by the screaming baby, the window whapping flight attendant, the wrong station, the Travis Bickle cab con. Tori was upstairs and I wasn't invited. Just like home. Well, time to get some sleep . . .
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