"Ciao bella," he kissed my cheeks and plunged back into the traffic of Roma. "How are you?"
"Happy to see you. Oof, it's been a long night. I didn't get into the city until 5:30 this morning --"
"What? You were here so early? Why did you not tell me? I would have suggested meeting earlier."
I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. Sometimes I forget that I'm allowed to ask for things and that other people are allowed to say no. I feel guilty for asking too much and think that the other party might oblige out of the same emotion. Which makes things bloody awkward all around and sometimes I'd rather not be bothered.
"You should have told me," Leonardo skillfully whizzed between cars and overly candid pedestrians.
"I had some nice naps," I tried to excuse my behavior. "I napped in Piazza del Popollo and I napped again near the Vatican."
It felt reassuring to walk inside Leonardo's apartment and realize that not much had changed since my visit last November. As I wrote in Istanbul, I understand that the world doesn't stand still while I move, but the few moments of superficial, "ah... the hot water switch for the shower still has tape on it. All is consistent and understandable and unchanging. If I ever stop moving, people and things and jobs will be exactly as I left them. Like this tape."
Which is the biggest and blackest of the self-delusions, but there is profound comfort to be found in this lie (primarily in the "the world revolves around me" portion). This is why going back to visit old friends is so bittersweet. The tape might still be over the hot water switch, but there will be different vegetables in the fridge, the dog will have gotten older and both lives will have carried on in different directions. I've changed, they've changed, the situation has changed. It's challenging to understand that old friends are new people when memories have had the chance to ferment and nostalgia has added sweetness to the sour.
I met Miguel in France in 2012.
We met again in England in 2013.
We will meet again (if all goes according to trajectory) in Mexico in 2014.
We watched pigeons in Paris. We watched ducks in Buckinghamshire. We'll be very different people and watch very different things in Mexico City this November.
If I expected things to pick up where they left off, I'd only be disappointed and angry. So I have to approach Miguel in Mexico with the same open mind with which I approached Miguel in England (although I'll still be very happy if we manage to find some ducks). I have to give space for the person to be the person he is and not the person I remember.
In this space, it's clear that some things pick up again while some things disappear entirely. Like jeans run through the wash too many times -- the color fades, hems fray and stains collect, but one hopes to always have a working zipper. When I see Janet this October, I assume that she'll still be the passionate artist who cuddles with me on the couch and listens (armed with fine whiskey or box wine) better than anyone in the world (this is our zipper), but her jeans will probably have extra wear and tear from finishing a master's degree and all manner of new puppy love around the legs.
If we wear the jeans day after day, we don't notice the little tears and the grass stains we pick up whilst skidding through life (and we often take the working zipper for granted). But Miguel in Mexico will notice the marks that Miguel in England never saw, and perhaps he'll be good enough to point them out to me. Just as Leonardo was able to notice the changes (or lack thereof) between Aimee last November and Aimee now.
Leonardo saw the loneliness of Istanbul. The craziness of Combe Martin. The unfairness of Vis (more on this later... should I ever muster up the courage to do a behind-the-scenes post).
"You're still chasing after pain."
"No... " I immediately contradicted his perspective of my torn up denims without even allowing his words to sink in.
"Yes, yes... you're trying to learn," he anticipated my pat answer. "But do you need to learn through pain?"
"You're right," I permitted myself to mull, even though mulling over worldview flaws is another painful pastime. "I used to think that pain was the only way to learn, so that's what I chose to bring into my life. To seek out. But now I think I've had enough for a while. I want to let life be easy. To just flow naturally. I left an unpleasant workaway situation in Solin because it didn't meet my needs. I stayed for a week and then hitchhiked out. I finally have the courage to leave bad situations and know how to do so."
"Va bene," Leonardo congratulated me. "And you're wilder since the last time I saw you."
(this was probably said in reference to my hairy legs, lack of makeup and wildcamping in Albania. Now I wear the crazy pants)
My friend fed me gluten-free pasta with pesto and noticed that I still "eat like a bird." He took his aging dog for a quick walk and I cleaned up the kitchen before taking my third nap of the day.
When I woke two hours later, Leonardo took me out to see the city on his scooter.
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| A fountain with turtles! This photo is for Tessa. |
Leonardo wanted to show me things that I hadn't seen before, but in all honesty, it's becoming a touch challenging for me to remember which things I've seen before. The big cities are starting to meld together in my mind and in the near future, I might need this blog to remind me what I've seen and where I've been. Sure, I took plenty of photos of the Coliseum and the Pantheon and the Forum (along with all the other tourists) -- but I certainly can't remember the names of all the squares or fountains I may or may not have visited.
August is an interesting time of year to visit Roma.
"All the people who live here have gone to the sea for holidays. Roma is deserted. The only ones left are the tourists."
"It's so strange to me that it's abandoned in August but was completely overrun in November."
"All the big Italian cities are like that. August is for tourists. The Italians go to their homes by the sea."
Dusk fell.
Roma by scooter on a warm summer night is a gorgeous thing. Just the right amount of chaos. Soft lights reflecting off rustic paint and glistening stone. Honk, honk, honk, who cares if it's a one way street?
We ate at an empty restaurant (a sign that its regular clientele are the absentee locals) and the food was so good that I lost all coordination and dropped my fork with a click, clack, clatter onto the patio floor.
Well, I'm glad the restaurant is deserted...
Leonardo dropped Ellie and me off at the Bologna metro station in front of the post office. My blabla car ride to Reggio Calabria had written that he'd pick me up around midnight, so arriving at 11:45 pm felt very fine indeed.
No way I can miss him.
12:00 came. I carefully scanned every vehicle and every face inside, hoping to make a match with Francesco's profile picture.
12:00 went.
At least it's warm out, I thought as I flipped through my podcasts.
12:30 came.
12:30 went.
Errmm... he did say he'd be a little late. Aaaand... this IS Italy. It's not Maud I'm waiting for, when five minutes late means my Dutch friend is probably most likely dead.
12:45 came.
12:45 went.
If he doesn't show up... what do I do? I suppose I can curl up in the metro and sleep for a bit. That would certainly make up for some of the hippie points Sabina stole. I don't have Leonardo's phone number, so I couldn't call him even if I had a working phone. Meh. Something will happen. If I stay out all night, I stay out all night. There are worse places to wildcamp. Like the edge of that f*cking marshy lake in Albania.
I didn't have Leonardo's phone number, but I did have Francesco's.
It's about that time when I call him and ask if he's suddenly had a change of heart and has decided to forgo his trip to Southern Italy. Mmm... whom to ask for a phone? That girl has one, but doesn't look like the type of person who'd give it up or who speaks English. Aha! That fellow seems friendly enough and looks like he probably speaks English... maybe I'll just --
"Excuse me, are you Aimee?" the friendly fellow definitely spoke English.
"Yes! Are you waiting for Francesco too?"
"Si, he said that he called you but couldn't get through."
"Probably because my SIM card is from Croatia," I made the conscious decision to not feel bad about my lack of working phone. "Is he still coming?"
"He's waiting for someone at the airport. Workers are on strike and the flight of another passenger was delayed."
"But he's still coming?"
"We hope."
"Okay, then."
Francesco pulled up at 13:30. During that time, my new acquaintance (an Italian filmmaker who works in Roma) had magnanimously passed on several valuable tips for avoiding being overfed by Italian mamas (something that terrifies me).
"Never say the meal is too much. It's always the right amount and it's always multo, multo buono. You are just too full. You just can't eat any more. The food is delizioso, but you are not up to it."
The seven plus hour drive to Reggio Calabria was painful (Leonardo would have scolded me and I would have shrugged meekly and said something about lessons). I sat in the backseat with the Italian filmmaker and struggled valiantly to find a comfortable position.
There was none to be found. The seats were rigid and straight. The car was freezing because Francesco kept the AC on so that he wouldn't fall asleep behind the wheel. I wasn't exactly sure as to why he needed the AC at all, as the epic amount of potholes should have been more than enough to keep even a diagnosed narcoleptic wide awake.
The road from Roma to Reggio Calabria was half tunnel, swear to Jesus (the Slovenian one). Italians must not believe in going around mountains -- they just carve straight on through them. And then realize that the tunnels they built weren't wide enough, so spend twenty plus years remedying this slight oversight.
It was such a surreal experience. My eyelids would drift shut --
-- slowly --
-- softly --
-- gently --
CRASH (courtesy of enormous pothole)
-- eyes pop open and I discover that I'm in a tunnel.
Eyelids drift shut --
-- slowly --
-- softly --
-- gently --
CRASH, BANG, BUMP (guess who?)
-- eyes pop open and I discover that I'm outside in the dark.
This same scenario occurred on average of three times per minute for at least four hours.
A narcoleptic would have been cured and an epileptic would have died.
The goddess of naps was just divinely annoyed. And cold. And disoriented.
Giuseppe picked me up at an exit in Reggio Calbria. I paid Francesco his 35 euros (part of me wanted to ask for a discount for the whole hour and a half late thing and the fact that he kept the car at approximately 5 degrees Celsius for the entire journey, but the part of me that wanted to get on with it and take a nap definitely won) and Giuseppe drove me to his family's house. Where I drank an espresso, ate some fichi and took a NAP.
For the entire day.
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