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
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
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