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
“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
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