The start of something

The last time she was in Italy there were funeral flowers in her hotel room. Meant to be a welcoming gift by the romantic entrepreneur with whom she’d slept back in New York, the arrangement of white roses and calla lilies brought the grandeur and formality that comes with death. She had told him she would be coming through Rome partly in good form but also because with him, she’d learned, the world was wide open. She hadn’t dreamed that a weekend stay at the most expensive hotel in Rome would follow.  Yet, when she checked in two concierges each made a point to step out from behind the desk and shake her hand. “Anything you need at all, miss. We are here for you as family.”

There are certain truths that as a young woman were obvious to her but that somewhere between sending the email and googling the hotel room she chose to ignore. A man does not get a women 20 years his junior a hotel room just to be nice. Well, she let that thought move quickly out of her mind as simply as it had presented itself. Like the passing of roadkill, a momentary sadness gives way to the open road ahead. Don’t think about it and it can not possibly be a problem.

He told her to meet him beforehand at the roof top bar of her hotel before they went to dinner. She chose to wear the first outfit she tried on, a smugness that so compliments a wanted woman. She felt the weight of something illicit as she applied a heavy lipstick. Like a diamond necklace, exquisite to witness yet impossible to wear without a strain of the neck and a struggle to stand straight. It was a glittering imprisonment; he kept her inside his hotel at the top of the castle where champagne and oysters were set out on the grand piano. Amore, they play this song for you, he said each time the tune changed. And this one. This one is for a woman, this woman, he’d rub her thigh and she’d take a drink. Looking out the one story window onto the ancient empire, the thought of him on top of her crossed her mind. She ran her tongue over her teeth, removing the dried bits before taking another sip.

At the Union March in Rome

I stumbled upon a protest in the  middle of Rome, after making the decision to get lost in the center of Rome. Rachel lives in Monti, the Williamsburg of Rome for associations sake. I ran to the Coliseum, and it being a Saturday found the crowd overwhelming. Turning left I wound along with the traffic a bit higher. A woman sat on the sidewalk giving out pieces of sandwich to her five children. I imagine they were hers, and when I went running by they all stooped to look at me. One of the girls, standing closest to me, had wide gray eyes like a cartoon of a child. Her hair was stuck to her face. I felt her looking right through me, seeing my American idiosyncrasies swimming inside of me. I am exactly what she saw, whatever it was.

Protests here are causes for celebrations. Like a birthday or holiday party, you can be sure to see all of your friends. It is an excuse for an early pre-game, a meet-up at which you can have a march and a shout in costume and face paint, perhaps don an emblematic banner as a cape, and join in a just cause. The particular march I attended circumvented the better part of the city and was in support of unions and their benefits for workers. The colors are red and yellow and it seems all ages showed up for the event. I felt like a party crasher, but wonder if I would have been invited if I had only asked.