From Day One

(Steve)

After the Medias Res post I left yesterday, here is one from day one, newly dictated in slow type.

We left Detroit Metro yesterday at 7pm and have arrived here in our hotel in Rome at 5:30 pm. 22.5 hrs, minus the 6 we lost to time zone shrinkage. Night lasted all of three, maybe four hours tops, hard to tell exactly in that timeless spaceless sleepless restless emplaned state.

It was an exercise in gritty greasy bleary endurance, sandwiched first between C and an 80 year old Greek who thanked me for all my help when we reached land again (I buckled him, dejacketed him, opened his crackers, etc. In exchange, he gave me his brownie and yogurt. Easily favored on my side, those brownies were the bomb.)

It was 12 hours from the D to Amsterdam, but 13 ½ because of an hour and a half spent on the tarmac in Detroit waiting for the engine to start and the air conditioner to cool. The unease of which, 22.5 hours later, all showered with the air conditioner on lying on the bed in our cozy little room here in Rome, seems quite unreal. Years past. Another life.


My first thought laying over in Amsterdam: I have never seen so many blondes all in one place.* World travelers savvy enough to trot a globe will know this well enough but I am just seeing it for the first time now, how cultures desperate for a change will engage in romantic arbitrage. Italians will pay dearly for a blonde mate whereas in Scandinavia they are a dime a dozen.

The last four hours of the ride was easier. I slept two hours at least.
We came out of the gate in Rome, changed $200 US into Euros, and walked through customs. Just like that. One minute at the change stand, the next at the door to the street. No lines, no gates, no tough guys with x-ray analytical gifts. Just one guy, a little off to the side of a bottleneck, and he didn’t even look at us, or I didn’t notice he did, looking as I was for the real customs officers.

And then out into a big gallery and the exit doors and we stopped to pull out the hotel info to give to the cab driver and a man walked up and in reasonable enough English asked us did we need a cab. "Sure" we said and shrugged at each other. He smiled a warm smile and he was handsome and well dressed in beige and white linen, shirt and pants irrespectively. We told him where we were going and he looked up and scanned the heavens and came back to us and said “35 Euros” and we shrugged again and said "Okay."

So out the doors we went, him leading the way and looking back every thirty seconds to ask us a friendly question and then I saw to the right the line of official taxis and I looked at Courtney and I said “Do you just want to ask them how much it will cost?” and she said “No” and then I said “Are we really going with this guy?” and she said “Yeah, as long as he has a real taxi.” and I said “I don’t think he’s gonna.” and then he swung off the sidewalk into the parking lot to open the back of a tan station wagon (to match the linen) and I took a look at it and then looked at him standing there under the open wagon back and said “No, nevermind." and waved my hands in front of me and we crossed back over the lane into the line for the taxis. He had been polite about it, understood immediately. Courtney looked back over her shoulder and said she saw him arguing with someone at the car.

Thirty seconds later two men approached us, one flashed a badge. I thought we were busted for somehow skipping the customs line. He asked me in surprisingly good English if the man had offered to drive us. Yes, I said, relieved that it was someone else who was in trouble, ready to testify to anything. “How much did he say it would cost?” I told him. “Can I see your passport?” and he took it and gave it to the other cop and said “These are gypsies, not official taxis. Not safe, and not licensed. He will bring this right back.” and the other walked away. Courtney said “Wait.” but he said “It’s alright, he is a policeman.” Courtney had read never ever ever give up your passport to anyone. We watched helplessly as my passport, more valuable than I can’t even say how many thousands of dollars, my virtually irreplaceable passport, walked across the parking lot toward this man that we now knew was a criminal. They could have all been in cahoots and all it would have taken was a shiny little cracker jack parmalat badge and a lot of guts.

I sat there with Courtney. We sat there, we two. And I said, "How I wish we had something to do!" My eyes glued to the man with my docs, and a few minutes later he walked back over and handed them to me. We thanked him for what I don't know. The other stood next to the gypsy, writing out a ticket.

We got in an official cab. "Capische L’Inglese?" "NO." OK, and I showed him the name and address of the hotel. He took off.

We whipped past the sane two right lanes at 140 KPH plus, This was my kind of driver, fielding and placing calls on two cell phones and taking notes on a pad of paper while driving, owning the left lane, pushing other drivers into the right two.

I thought Boston was homicidal. In Rome, they measure “that was a close one” in centimeters, not inches. But every moment of it was graceful, a mechanical ballet, objective, understood, emotionless. Similarly on the sidewalks: In spacious Ann Arbor a nudge feels deliberate, but in the jungle I will gladly give up my most personal space because there I nothing personal in someone taking it. Egotistical maybe, but personal no. Same on these streets. It is just survival. Impersonal and cold and welcome.

The cab ride was $58 Euros. That’s pretty much $80. Eighty dollars! I think he took us for a ride.** He handed us our bags and I gave him the money and said “That was quite a ride.” And he thanked me and smiled.

* My most recent thought in Italy: I haven’t seen a blonde in days.
** I later asked the concierge, and yes, he took us on an extra tour.