April 6, 2017
What started out as a beautiful and sunny morning devolved into thunder and rainfall by the evening. I thought vacations (i.e. Spring Break) were supposed to be fun–but instead of an expected warm afternoon, we were faced with the possibility of drenched clothing and a rather miserable ride back to the hostel on the subway.
Not only that, but I lost my phone in middle of a bustling city, and very nearly never saw it again.
In order to understand this completely predictable outcome, I’ll start at the beginning.
The Coliseum
The only one of us who had visited Rome previously was Ashton, and Kody was just giddy just thinking about our planned trip to the Coliseum in the midst of the Italian city. He, of course, being a wrestler himself and an athlete, meant that it held a special place in his heart, but I was more interested in seeing the relic itself and exploring the depths that were open to the public. We had traveled around the city already, and even though we entered the country without even the border guards stopping us at the airport (that is another story for another time), we did want to visit some rather popular destinations just for the sake of seeing them for the first time. Of course, we took some cheesy tourist photos outside of the Coliseum, as par for course, but once we managed to make it inside I was absolutely delighted to walk amongst the columns dwarfing us in the halls below.
Of course, we were only one of many.
I find that in places that hold extensive history that I’m swept up in my own imagination. Many of these places, dilapidated yet preserved, remind me of my own learning as a fledging historian back in my university studies. I loved learning about places such as these in my youth, because it forced me to recognize the importance of storytelling in any form. History and its literature go hand in hand, and seeing our own past come alive–especially in the present–solidifies the grand narrative we tell ourselves.
But I also recognize that the grandeur we assign to our own histories can be fraught with fallacy.
After our visit to the Coliseum, we managed to pass through some markets on the way through the city, the chatter of locals intermingling with visitors, a cacophony of languages a din of noise–white noise background to the comfort of the afternoon sun. We ducked into several stalls, picking and choosing dry ingredients to take back with us to England so we could try something new.
And I reminded myself, again, all of this was new.
And I was savoring it.
Tapas and Tirades
It was hot, and we were tired.
Oklahoma summers are by no means mild. The thick blanket of humidity coupled with rising temperatures in the last decade makes walking outside feel like stepping into a broiling oven. Having grown up in the heat of a Southern summer, I was used to the sun warming my back, and although I usually baked, rarely burned, we had been walking all day. Finally, though, we managed to find a place to rest.
Which is how we found ourselves drunk on a Sunday afternoon in Italy, sipping on wine from a bottle that a stranger had chosen for us.
As we giggled amongst ourselves, sampling tapas and planning for the next day (blissfully unaware of the weather awaiting us that evening), the waiter who recommended the bottle managed to strike up conversation. I was pleasantly surprised to find that we expats–though of course Americans are easy to spot, I’ve been told–managed to engage with others from all walks on our travels, but I was especially grateful for new and friendly faces so far from home. It had been a while since I last talked to my mom and sister, and I missing them terribly though I was enjoying my time student teaching overseas.
“Where are you all from?” he asked as he brought around another tray of tapas, this time a sample of roasted potatoes. Setting the tray down gently, he went about refilling the carafe of water sitting on the table, the glass foggy with condensation.
“Oklahoma–the States,” Ashton replied easily, tossing her hair over her shoulder to get it out of the way.
“Are you all enjoying your time here?” he began again, tucking the tray underneath his arm, trapped between his side. “I am not from Italy originally, either.”
“Oh? Where are you from?” I prompted, leaning forward.
I worked with expats from all over Europe in my previous job at my university, and I always heard stories of how beautiful some of the countries I had not yet visited were. They were places I longed to visit, so I was curious. Hearing about their homelands, the genuine joy emanating from them when they speak of their friends and family and hometowns–that was what I cherished most in those moment.
“I am from Montenegro,” he replied easily. “A beautiful country, but I moved here several years ago and I love it here. I am sure you all are here for leisure. Are you enjoying it?”
“I’m traveling with two pretty blondes,” I laughed, and although it was a joke, it was a genuine compliment that I meant. “Makes everything better, including travel.”
Laughter bubbled up from us at our table, and it was the boldest I could have been under the circumstances–bolder than I’d ever been before–but I was halfway across the world with almost nothing to lose beyond my dignity. I was coming to learn more about this side of myself; I was no longer as terrified of any social missteps and mistakes, though I still grappled with loneliness. I would always reply the stupid things I’ve said, a hellish record player of my one making droning on in the back of my mind. But the response I received couldn’t have been more delightedly unexpected.
“I like brunettes better,” he said with a smile, and then had the audacity to leave.
I fumbled my fork after that, dropping it in front of me and nearly knocking the wine glass to my right off it’s delicate stem. Failing to contain my laughter, we managed to pay the check soon after, the waiter coming to send us off beforehand.
Then we left, rounding the corner and weaving through several alleyways, I felt the first raindrop slide down my neck.
“Hurry!” I heard from my right, and I can’t remember who started the chase, but by then the three of us rushed forward, feet slight footed and the cobblestone slippery.
We ran through the streets of Rome, snaking through alleyways, giggling to ourselves, generally drawing the attention of some of the local citizens, and making fools of ourselves. At one point, I tripped over my own ankle, and we had to stop to catch out breath in an alleyway, the three of us pressed shoulder to shoulder against one another as we sought shelter from the rain. I remember thinking that it was, up to that point, the happiest I had been–feeling for the moment fully present, fully alive, and giddy with the revelation I felt like myself again.
Stopping under and awning right outside of a gelato shop, we grinned at one another as rain made a mess of our clothes, my own own hair sticky-thick against my scalp. One look, and the three of us devolved in a fit of laughter, heaving against the solid brick behind us, the smell of rain, of chaos, of the storm not far off filling our lungs.
And I felt free.
Stepping just a few alleys over, Ashton spotted a treasure.
“Gelato!” she squeaked, ducking inside the small shop. Kody held the door as I followed in, the chill air cutting through the humidity and sending goosebumps up my arms.
We surveyed the selections, choosing a few so we could share between us. I still remember the taste of salted caramel on my tongue, the sugar dissolving into a sweet memory of a warm summer day. It was then that I realized my mistake as I was fishing through my bag to find my wallet–that I had left my phone, my only contact with my family back home, somewhere in the vast city we were calling home for the weekend.
The three of us took an Uber back to the tiny little restaurant, where lo and behold, the same flirtatious waiter handed over the phone I had left so blatantly on the table.
I forget sometimes the precious moments of confidence I managed to scratch out in the midst of trying to find my place in the world as a young twenty-something. Life had, I thought, been a burden I was forced to bear in my youth, as dramatic and childish as it sounds. But I found in these small, precious moments–ones of embarrassment, bold overtures, risk-taking–that I was more than happy to wade through any difficulties to get the other side. The darkness of the night, heavy on our shoulders and hard on our eyes, made it difficult to see fully into the cavernous interior of the restaurant, but I do remember through the flush on my face and the clear embarrassment, the delight I felt in the moment of being seen. I think sometimes these moments, ones of hilarity and humiliation, can be burned into our memory so easily because it is so very human to want to seen and understood.
But it’s also human to forget. To forgive. To move on. And in that moment, halfway across the world in a tiny restaurant in an alleyway in Rome, I finally recognized something indescribably important within myself: that I was enough to just be. I spent the entire last year mulling over and torturing myself with what I thought others wanted from me when instead it was just that I didn’t fit. That what I wanted was not what was needed, and that I would never be enough for her, but I would be for someone else, somewhere, someday. We were puzzle pieces not suited to one another, and that was the reality I needed to face.
Next time I won’t forget it.
Sam