#2: Arrival in Rome

I overpacked and regret was settling in. This was all the fault of the crazed few hours I spent packing before leaving for Sea-Tac. I had scampered between the bathroom, the closet, and my room indiscriminately tossing random items into an open suitcase. Basketball in Mindy’s room. Actually, the whole ordeal reminded me more of the shuttle runs required in middle school gym class. Run to the line, pick it up, run back, and drop. Repeat. Still jittery from a bad final the day before, I hadn’t slept and was too exhausted to think about whether I really needed a particular something for the trip. I stuffed a motley amalgam of clothes and toiletries into two rolling suitcases and had to sit on top of one to squash it shut. Zip it up, worry later. I was running late.

And before I knew it, I stood in the heart of Rome’s airport with a suitcase handle clutched in each hand, a heavy messenger bag slung across my aching body, strapped to an even heavier backpack that made my back arch forward uncomfortably. How cumbersome, and what an easy target for the infamous pickpockets. It was only a matter of time before they would steal all my money and documents, leaving me helpless and nameless on the streets of Rome. What would I do then? I had slept on the plane, but was still too tired to think very hard. It took me a gargantuan, almost physical effort to suppress the pickpocket horror story from popping up over and over in my head. Whac-a-mole in Mindy’s brain.

I had just left the baggage claim and was already falling behind my group, looking like a hunched beetle with black Samsonite appendages protruding too far from my still-nauseous core for comfort. Rather than having to face the guilt of having my fellow travelers wait for me, I knew I had to do everything possible to catch up, and quickly. I hate being a weak link more than anything else, almost.

Full speed ahead, clumsy beetle. I was not in Rome. I was in a war zone that assaulted all the senses. Please return your blinders to their upright and locked position. I set my eyes on the glass sliding doors leading outside; they looked like a wall of white light due to the sidewalk on the other side reflecting direct sunlight. I could not believe the real Rome was finally within sight! At that moment, to reach the welcoming, sunny doors (welcoming, at the time) was all I wanted in the world. But getting there across a treacherous sea of bodies and luggage carts was going to be a problem. Steeling myself, I made a beeline towards the light. Tackle football at Fiumicino. I was pleasantly surprised that my strategy – elbows first, shield face, change direction only when absolutely necessary – was working so well. People scattered to let me pass. I was a rhino (beetle) charging through tourists on safari, smiling as I went.

But trouble came in the form of Ms. Stiletto Heels. She fit all the stereotypes I had of the Typical Italian Woman, with flawless makeup, animal print accessories, a perfectly matched combo of short skirt and tight jacket. Bella figura taken to the extreme. A fellow traveler? That outfit couldn’t have been practical on the plane. Maybe she changed at the airport? What dedication. Clop-click, click-clop. I could hear her coming straight at me. She emerged from behind the waves of bodies, like the sun from behind the clouds. And just as blinding. Her sunglasses were the first thing I saw - shiny white square frames that matched the wall of light in luminescence. Impeccably groomed bangs framed deep tinted tunnels created by the dark lenses; not one strand of hair awry. Shift downwards past powdered cheekbones and painted lips. Leopard print scarf, gently twisted and tucked into a rich brown suede jacket. Matching miniskirt. Glittering leather purse, matching suitcase. Wine red stockings, an exhibit truncated by matte black leather stiletto boots that seemed to go on forever, each finally tapering at a point that was lost to sight. They embedded themselves in the cracked airport tiles with every step.

Thus hurtled the stylish juggernaut of earthy colors. Nothing could stop our collision course. I bore left, taking care not to buffet an elderly couple hunched over a luggage cart. No response from Stiletto Heels. Was she even aware of the path ahead? No life in those tunnel eyes. She clicked closer, still on a collision course. I almost tripped over my dragging feet in an effort to turn into an opening on my right.

You, in your little heels, ready to impale small animals. Me, with two rolling suitcases complete with beetle-like exterior. Please ask yourself who would have an easier time getting around. Move, Stiletto – all I ask is that deviate a mere two feet from your determined path. You are not a train. We all stopped to look at you, congratulations. At the very least we all heard you. Would you please spare a second…right in front…look!

Still, closer. Less than ten feet away at this point; I could count each gem on her sunglasses. No room to move! I groaned and shifted as far right as possible, luggage appendages growling along impatiently, ominously behind me. Click-clop, click-clop. Mayday. Minimize damage. Brace for impact.

Swish! CLOP. Stiletto Heels almost skewered my suitcase, transmitted a jolt up through the handle to galvanize my arm and shoulder, sliced through the stiff numbness. And then she was gone. Swallowed whole by the crowd. The unfazed click-clop grew steadily fainter, becoming completely inaudible before the electricity had left my arm. If this was the pace of Rome, I had much to get used to.