THE day that will live in infamy...

One 20-something sojourns to Italy...

Rome has everything to offer a nerdy college student. Savory dishes, world-famous couture, and vivacious natives don’t even begin to satisfy the thirst for centuries-old sculptures and crumbling cathedrals that I possess. The city that smells of sawdust and cappuccinos by morn is a labyrinth of mystery and delight by sunset. Marble colonnades stem from St. Peter’s facade, reaching out their arms as if to say Bienvenuto, mi bambino. The baker, the landlord, the men selling fish from a greasy cart: so many hands are being used to talk the city could pass for a deaf community—but the cacophony of ciaos, bella, and taxi! quickly prove this incorrect. Without any premeditated effort I can catch a cab to tremble under the visage of Il Coluseo or weep at the beauty of a Caravaggio hanging in Vatican City. I can do all this, of course, if I’m not waiting in the U.S. Embassy to Rome.

Which I am.

And I can do this, obviously, if I still know the current location of my passport.

Which I don’t.

Ah vita.

I mouth the words in practice as I step off Flight United 966 to Rome. Bon Giorno, signore. Dove e il museo? Grazie! Spending four days in Rome with my friend and her parents has me giddy with anticipation. The art, the food, the language: all at my disposal to satisfy the yearnings of an art history fiend and cultural lover. I spot the driver who will take us from the airport to our little piazza apartment. But with my hand extended and the grazie barely formed on my tongue, he tosses our overstuffed wheelies into the trunk and hits the gas. Taken aback, and slightly disappointed, I scramble into my seat. I thought he’d be so excited to help me try Italian… I click the belt together nervously; maybe I can try ciao when we leave. I hum “Hey Mambo,” trying to ease the quiet somberness; this is looking more like a scene from the Italian Job than an Italian cab ride. But he flips his cell open and is already yelling—as anyone who has heard an Italian speak knows, this merely denotes conversation—into the mouthpiece and revving the van. I realize we are zipping alongside grassy fields of green and orange that are peppered with large white political posters; the smiling figures on a shiny plastic board are stark beacons amid the muted greens of the grass; I find them to be a rather ironic placement that suits Italy—a country that produces both Renaissance masterpieces and Vespas. As Giovanni (I’ve nicknamed him this) dodges slow traffic—‘slow’ defined as going under mach 5—I steady my breaths. City cab drivers should operate those teacup rides at carnivals. Foreign city cab drivers should train astronauts for motion sickness. Holy crap. If patience is a virtue, Rome never got the memo. Or maybe it doesn’t care. I suspect a little bit of both.

Suddenly, the view opens up into plaza after plaza, the colors of the tanned stucco so crisp against a cloudless royal blue sky they look like cardboard cut-outs. I rack my brain to name each landmark as we pass. Trajan’s forum! I spot the thousands of figures etched onto a marble pillar and blurt to the car: “The emperor Trajan was known for his diplomacy and vast extension of the Roman empire. You may recall Trajan’s column…” knowing full well they care less about Trajan and even less about his columns. But Bernini statues line secret alcoves, Michelangelo domes smile above, and we are in Roma. I suspect I drooled. And just as quickly as he ushers us in, Giovanni is now slapping our luggage onto a cobbled street, and—alas!—speaking.

Piazza Biscone, no?

Dave, our patriarch, replies in gruff English it is after checking the reservations he’s printed. A lot of this goes on during our trips: Dave hailing the cab, Dave sitting in the front to direct the driver, Dave haggling over which room we get, Dave creating/distributing/enforcing the itinerary. And while the control occasionally borders on militant, I welcome the preparations and traveling expertise with open, responsibility-free arms. Traveling with Dave means no thinking, bargaining, or carrying very important do-not-lose-or-you-will-be-stuck-in-a-foreign-country-indefinietely documents. Traveling with Dave means visiting an unknown world without the unknown part mattering. The man knows how to travel.

I grab the itinerary from my purse, already crumpled and ripped (I’m serious, you cannot trust me to take care of anything) and read our location. We appear to be stationed around Pee-ats-uh Na-von-ah—I delight in sounding out the words— five blocks shy from the Pantheon. While the two men negotiate a taxi price, more interesting things can be seen. I heave my luggage up the street to our apartment door, memorizing the view: quaint stone streets, a pescaria across the way, bell towers that chime just slightly off the hour. Ever the American tourist, I can’t help be reminded of the charming hotels of Vegas. But I shake my head to dispel the image; this is real.

As Dave pushes open the heavy wooden door at our stoop, I turn around once more. A seagull has perched itself on the fishery’s canopy, and I think to smell the air: the fish wafts strongly. But beyond that, a hint of gasoline from the van, a wee whiff of bread and the scent of my own sweat all accumulate to what I can only label ‘Italian town.’ I cross the threshold into the apartment and collapse on our bed. Bella Roma.

“So we take a…left here. And then a right and then…” Dave is navigating through the town as our happily delegated GPS. He finds a nook where we can grab some crispy bruschetta later; he points out a bell tower that was used during World War II for snipers; he also scares away the pesky vendors who are trying to take advantage of a young American girl who wasn’t that interested in the paintings—she was just trying to be nice.

But that’s all hypothetical. So he’s guiding this group of American ladies on a twilight tour through the mysterious alleys of Rome. Unbeknownst to me, we stumble upon Piazza Navarro. I jump with delight and rush to the Fontana Dei Quattro Fiumi, immediately recognizing the emotional expressions and fluidity of the structure as a Bernini. Okay, my knowledge of the location’s significance stems not from study, but Angels and Demons. Either way, I squeeze behind my traveling family, all of whom are published photographers, and shamelessly steal their shots. Rome by day is fun, crazy, a little smelly. But Rome by night is breathtaking.

“Look, I got a great photo!” I show him my picture of the fountain, its ivory curves tinted blue by the darkening sky, with a whiskey-yellow sun setting behind it.

“Good photographers take images, not photos,” Dave’s harsh voice has a hint of playfulness as he glances at my viewfinder.

“Did you see the one I got?” He teases me with his camera. It’s the same picture, but somehow he captures the purest blue in the sky, the shiniest marble on the statue, and an aura in his sunset that somehow escapes my notice until then. This is not his first photograph. Excuse me, image.

He unzips the bag, the trusty black sack that holds our dear passports, visas, boarding passes and such and tucks in his camera so gently I expect it gets a bedtime story. The evening adventures come to close as we happily return to our beds.

“So, Miss Art History. Tomorrow is your day. You tell us which galleries we’ve got to see, and where they are.” Dave hands me the map and a pen before heading off to bed, and I put off nine-hours of jetlag to create a perfectly crafted schedule for Rome, the humanities major Mecca. As I fall asleep, I picture Teresa in Ecstasy and The Calling of Matthew, the figures turning their faces out of the paintings and greeting me in my sleep. My dreams of tomorrow are nowhere close to the nightmare it becomes.

The morning finds me refreshed and talking to Dave’s back.

“Wait, why can’t we go?” I’m dressed in a red blouse and khakis, square glasses frame my face and my hair is pulled back in a bun: what I call my “art history” outfit. Half of the day has already passed and my helium-filled happiness is slowly leeching out of my system as I enter the living room. Dave is still wearing pajamas and rummaging through piles.

“Well, unless you know where our passports are, we’re not going anywhere but the embassy.” My secret hopes of this being a rather unfunny prank have disappeared as I see the black backpack: empty. As Dave looks up from his search, I see another empty space right where his left front tooth belongs. He notices my stare.

“And we’re also making a stop to the dentist. My tooth cracked off from the bread last night.”

It’s almost funny. I laugh. It is funny. Here is Dave, traveler-extraordinaire, and my 6-month-old nephew has more front teeth than him. Not to mention after four decades of assuming traveling responsibility he finally tastes that unfortunate dish of “I have to tell them I lost it.” I realize my reluctance to take responsibilities has cost me my favorite statue of all time. But I summon pity for the man; after all, a demi-god has fallen.

We start the day’s excursion by seeking a dentist, our fractured Italian barely getting us past “mouth” and “where.” But Dave spots a farmacia, marked by a green neon sign shaped like a plus, and we rush to its counter. The cracked tooth problem is apparently common here, because with little gesturing the cashier figures it out and rings up some denture cement. Dave presses the tooth into place and mumbles thanks. I turn to shout a grazie but the automatic glass door is already zooming shut. Damn. I still haven’t gotten to talk.

By mid-afternoon we arrive at the U.S. Embassy; its white columns and broad pediment look like something official and impressive you’d see in D.C., but amidst the pinnacle works of Western civilization, it stands out no more than a McDonalds in Tulsa. We have to enter in groups of two, so as I wait outside, I snap an image of the Italian guard (not sure it’s allowed, but he was cute). As tourists attempt to enter the embassy and are denied, I begin to realize the value of our situation. How many people get to see inside this building? We may be the unfortunate ones, but at least our trip is unique!

Once inside, we go up a set of spiral staircases into a small lobby, taking a number even as the only occupants. I use a piece of my green gum to stick the number in my journal—proof this is seriously happening. On the wall I notice posters of baseball fields and jazz singers and a picture frame for both the current president and secretary of state. I wonder who assembled the decorations: an American or an Italian? I suppose if it was the latter, there’d be more KFC posters, monster trucks, and cowboys. But as I approach the counter to turn in my paperwork (why do they have to know when grandma was born?) I am served by a young woman with—oh, thank the lord—an American accent. I have to admit, after the day’s dental detour, I am worn out and unwilling to decipher yet another Italian accent. As I check my watch while she stamps the forms, it dawns on me: today’s art extravaganza will not happen at all; the churches with the Lindsay Talbot canon of greatest works of art close in 30 minutes. Still sleepy and filled with resignation, I manage a weak smile as she takes a replacement photo. Sorry, image.

Four hours later, we have temporary passports and are eating dinner at the HardRock Café, a traveling tradition with our group. As we munch on cheddar cheese burgers and fries, I start a new mantra in my head: Vatican City tomorrow! Vatican City tomorrow! Dave reassures us that everything is still set in place, and our booked tour of the world’s finest collection of art remains intact. Teresa in Ecstasy removed firmly from my mind, I now envision the rich blues and reds of Raphael beaming from within St. Peter’s walls, the scala regia beckoning me down its divinely-lit steps, and the Sistine Chapel. Oh how could I even imagine being sad today! In 24 hours I will have seen Pope Sixtus’ namesake glowing from the ceiling, and Adam’s outstretched hand grasping for his Creator in what has to be the most graceful reach I’ve ever imagined. Sigh. Despite the day’s setbacks, Rome has not been lost on me.

I sit back in my squeaking patio chair and inhale the city air as it slowly chills for evening, laughing with my friend and enjoying the filling meal. I know that today has cost me dearly; trips across 5,000 miles don’t happen too frequently for most and when they do occur, there are no do-overs for a bad day. But the glass of ice water feels good in my hands, the café down the street serves excellent, meaty cannelloni, and Rome still has everything to offer. As our waiter returns to bring us coffee, I sense a change in the wind; perhaps now someone will speak with me. I catch his attention.

“Grazie.” He smiles and responds.

“Prego.”

Ah vita.