Behind the gate were Swiss Guards, and in front of the gate were throngs of people milling about for the beatification of Pope John Paul II, his first step toward sainthood. His body was moved from the crypt below to five-star permanent residency in the main hall of Saint Peter’s Basilica. But good Catholic that I am, I hadn’t come to see the Pope. I came to see Marco.
Marco worked at the Vatican. He was one of the bodyguards to the Pope. During the Pope’s daily constitutional walk, Marco was there. When the Pope sat in the Sistine Chapel for his morning prayers, Marco was there. When a tourist would get a little too close for comfort, Marco was there. How did he get this job? Apparently, this kind, soft-spoken, beautiful Roman man had a handful of black belts and could knock your block off before you knew your block was knocked off.
Soon he waltzed through the line of Swiss guards and whispered in the ear of the man at the gate. He pointed to me, and the man opened the gate to usher me in. The onlookers stood agape with eyes and mouths wide open. How did she get in? Who is she?
You know that final scene in An Officer and a Gentleman? The one where Richard Gere walks into the factory in his uniform, scoops up Debra Winger, and carries her off to live happily ever after? That’s how I felt when I saw Marco again.
Along with being handsome and sexy in his uniform, Marco was extremely kind. His heart was so big that I felt it radiating just by standing near him. I suppose that’s what happens when you walk around the grounds with the Pope every morning while he does his rosary.
He gave me a big hug. “She returns to the scene of the crime.”
“But we haven’t done anything wrong yet.”
He winks. “The day is young.”
We picked up flirting right where we had left off last May when I was in Rome with Áine. Looking back, it’s tough to tell if he was flirting with me because he liked me or he was flirting with me because he was just so good at it. Why squelch a gift? My mind drifted to thoughts of Christophe, who didn’t even know how flirty I could be because I couldn’t flirt in French yet. But Marco spoke English.
I had had impure thoughts about Marco from the moment I met him. And yes, I returned to the scene anticipating a crime of sorts. Thinking of Marco gave me the strength in my final months of working in my advertising agency to listen to Italian language CDs and practice, practice, practice. I was hoping to return to Rome to find a manly man who could embrace me so that I felt both secure and adored. I had to win the affection of his mamma. I had to learn for which team to cheer. I had to practice my guitar so I could play love songs on Sunday afternoons for the family to win their affection—my humble apology for not being born Roman. I had to become the Canadian version of Penelope Cruz for these people. I had to make them love me.
So Marco was my first candidate, or at least he had been before Paris. My feelings were conflicted when I thought back to my blue-eyed butcher in Paris. We took the elevator to the roof of the basilica and walked toward the forbidden area lined with statues. A guard waved us through with a smile and a wink. Scores of people were milling about Saint Peter’s Square. Looking down at them, I felt like royalty. I also felt like telling the crowds not to cry for me, Argentina. But no, no. No.
“Bella,” Marco began as he put his arm around my shoulders. “I must tell you first that there is nothing more I want in this moment than to undo the tie on your beautiful pink dress. I might have even attempted it if this entire area was not being filmed on security cameras right now.”
I felt excited yet uneasy about being monitored by people in a distant surveillance room who were likely wondering why Marco was up in the forbidden area with a girl.
Marco continued. “But you see, my dear, I have met someone and have given her my heart. I have made a vow and,” he waved his hand, “vows are not to be broken by men in my position.” He looked down at the generous cleavage line on my dress. “But from this position, you are very difficult to resist.”
At this point, I think I should have felt disappointment or sadness. My crush had found another girl. Instead, I felt relieved. I confessed. “I too have met someone in Paris,” I said. “Now you and I know where we stand.” And where we stood was right next to Michelangelo’s statue of Jesus on the roof on Saint Peter’s Basilica. “We will have to adore each other from afar and leave it at that.”
“Perfect. Today, I will take you to the best gelateria in Rome, but you must promise to never tell anyone. I am accepting you as a Roman citizen, and we Romans don’t share everything with the tourists.”
I nodded. “Our secret.”
“And if it pleases you, I will call Sandro and we will get paella for dinner tonight. You must meet his new girlfriend. She is just like Penelope Cruz.”
Later, we nestled into a free corner on the stairs by Trevi Fountain and dug into our gelato. As I fell more deeply in love with every flavor, Marco explained how you could tell a lot about a person’s love life by how they eat gelato.
He took a scoop of my lemon. “There are the Monday-Tuesday-Thursday-Wednesday types,” he began. “These people eat gelato daily. They also like to make the love daily, or would if they could.” He popped it in his mouth, closed his eyes, and sighed. When done, he took a scoop of his hazelnut and continued. “There are the Can’t-Settle-Down types. These people taste a lot of flavors before settling on just one. Once they make a choice and walk away with their cone, they are still thinking of what other flavors are out there that they could experience.” He continued. “I used to be like this, but I’m older and wiser now.” He tried my pear. “That’s good. The Shouldas are those who try a flavor but shoulda got the other one. These people live with regret. They probably regret most of their relationships.”
“What if you have a favorite flavor?” I asked. “What’s wrong with that? I cannot get enough of your hazelnut.”
“These are the Monogamists. They found the one flavor that fills their heart with joy. They would eat this flavor every day if they could.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “My dear, you didn’t come to Rome to be a Monogamist, did you?”
I tried my strawberry. And his cherry. And his chocolate.
He smiled and continued. “Then there are the Observers. These are a rare but sad breed. They aren’t eating, partaking, or even enjoying watching others partake in the gelato-eating orgy. I don’t know how they live life, but they must be sad and lonely.” We had finished our cups. Six flavors between the two of us. “And now, my dear. What does your gelato say about you?”
I pondered this for a minute and nodded. “I was a Monogamist on my first visit to Rome because I liked hazelnut so much, but now I’m clearly a Monday-Tuesday-Thursday-Wednesday type with Can’t-Settle-Down tendencies. I’m not a Shouldas type, as everything I’ve tried has been fantastic, which is also true of my love life lately, come to think of it. And I know for sure that I can’t be just an Observer.”
He slapped my knee. “Good girl.”
That night, we met up with Sandro at a restaurant on the edge of Piazza Navona. Over a steaming pan of paella, I told them my big news. That I had made a New Year’s resolution last year to become an artist, but instead I quit my job and was now traveling indefinitely.
Sandro stared back in amazement. “Non c’e terra che te regge.” No soil can hold you.
Marco put down his fork. “To a Roman, you are both a hero and a fool.”
“What do Romans dream about if not finding work that makes them happy?”
They howled with laughter at this. Sandro took my hand. “Janice, the only way to happiness is to find people with whom you can eat, drink, and laugh. That is all. That is everything.” He added. “And a spoonful of Nutella each day makes life more beautiful. It’s an antidepressant.”
Sandro and Marco have had their jobs for years and plan on having them until they retire. Apparently, when someone gets a good job around here, they keep it as long as
they can and they are grateful for it. For them, work is a way to afford life, but not a definition of who you are.
As a person who spent her career in advertising, the concept of keeping a job for life floors me. In advertising, we routinely move from agency to agency, city to city. If an agency loses an account, poof! You could be gone in as much time as it takes HR to do the paperwork. But after the initial awkward conversation with your boss and the strange feeling of a midday commute home, you bounce back relatively quickly. You send your resume to the ad agency that picked up the account your agency just lost, touting in the cover letter that you’re best for the job and can help them ramp up, and boom, you’re back in the game. Advertising people learn to roll with the punches.
But Sandro and Marco said that this line of thought was not common in Rome. And Romans are generally quite satisfied having the same jobs in the same place with the same people for most of their lives. And you know what? I found this to be a pleasing idea. These guys are who they are. They are doing what they do. And much of their definition of self was set. It’s interesting to know exactly what you’re going to get. Eliminates the guess work.
“So what kind of job is so great that you want to stay in it your whole life?” I looked at Marco, knowing his answer before he said anything. “Okay, so being a bodyguard to the Pope might be the Holy Grail of security.” I asked him who he likes better, the new Pope or the old Pope. (This was before the newer Pope, Francis, arrived on the scene.)
“I love both Popes. Pope Benedict is very intelligent.” Then he looked off and said, “Pope John Paul had a very big heart.” His eyes watered. “I miss my old friend.” Sandro put his hand on his friend’s shoulder in comfort and support.
Romans just whip out their emotions and throw them down on the table for you to admire alongside the antipasti, pasta, and strawberries.
Sandro works for the gas company. “I make sure the monuments light up so we can attract the tourist dollars.” And with that, we left the restaurant and meandered to a perch overlooking the glowing Colosseum to admire his handiwork.
“What will you do now?” Sandro asked.
I hesitated. “I’d like to be an artist.”
He smiled, put his arm around my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze. “I was hoping you would say that.”
I told him about the painted letters of Percy Kelly and about my new little set of watercolors. He asked me for a paper and pen. I pulled out my journal. He wrote down his mailing address and handed the journal to Marco, who did the same.
“Send us painted letters,” he said.
The next day, I sat by a fountain in Villa Borghese and began my first painted letter for Sandro. A few days later, after a stifling hot but fun adventure with my two favorite Romans, I recounted our time together in my second painted letter, this time for Marco.
Dear Sandro,
The fountains of Rome make all the noise of the city stop. I can sit next to a fountain, listen to the trickling water, and come back to myself. All the other sounds fade away so that I can only hear my thoughts and the soothing fountain. It’s as if they’ve agreed—the fountain and my ears—to drown out everything else so we could all collect ourselves and our thoughts for the next leg of the journey. But sometimes the only word I hear is “stay.”
Janice
Dear Marco,
There are many questions I have about the Italian language, like whether to add the “H” as shown above. My Google Search proved fruitless. My day at Villa (H)Adriana will always be remembered fondly for the beauty of the ruins, but more for the company. I laugh to recall standing in the shade and traipsing through the woods in search of the exit. And of course, the many photos I made you pose for along the way. I’m like a Japanese tourist with my camera. Thank you for a dreamy day among the ruins.
Janice
15
Bridge of Sighs
In life, we must accept who is asking and accept who is not. There was no one asking me to stay in Rome, and I had the lovely Christophe asking me to return to Paris. So why didn’t I just go back to Paris? I had been on the road for two months by this point. I was getting traveler fatigue and was missing my lovely butcher boyfriend. And yet, I kept on traveling. Why? Because though I had learned to say no back in LA to events and people that drained my energy and wallet, I had yet to learn when to say no to myself.
I had a full Italy itinerary. For a week after my paella dinner with my favorite Romans, I walked and walked and walked, stopping only to eat gelato and street pizza, paint, or write in my journal. I even took up doing the rosary, adding the activity to my long list of things to do each day. See this, see that. Do this, do that. Add an Italian language lesson, research cooking lessons, yet keep walking. I took a train to the Amalfi coast, but it wasn’t the same without Áine by my side to toss eggs into the sea. I walked across Sorrento, over Positano, and when I reached the island of Capri and had the option to take the elevator or the stairs up to the top of the island, I took the stairs. When I was tired, I took the train to Florence and walked more. Up and down the Duomo (the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore), through the open-air sculpture gallery in Piazza della Signoria to see a replica of Michelangelo’s David, then onto the Galleria dell’Accademia for a quick hello to the original. Walk, walk, walk. Click photos, keep walking.
By the time I reached Venice, I could do nothing but sigh from exhaustion. Luckily, I was in good company. The entire city of Venice seemed like it was sighing, as if it was also tired of holding itself together. With the coming and going of tides, the pastel buildings slowly rose and sank from the verdant watery grave. Boats puttered along the canals, schlepping everything from bananas and artichokes to grand pianos. Though San Marco Square was buzzing with tourists, beyond the square was a maze of vacant alleyways where no one ventured except a lost tourist. Trust me on this.
Even the gondola men seemed to only sing sad love songs. The city was fading like a masterpiece painting left in the sun too long. And when the sun went down and all the workers had taken the last water taxis out of the city, it was a gloomy and eerie ghost town.
It was all a bit depressing. Yet at the same time, beautiful. And definitely a nice place to get reflective.
One evening, I was walking along the canal at night. I was alone. I mean, really alone. I saw one couple walking hand-in-hand and no one else. On the one side of me was the canal with the quiet sound of boats buzzing by. On the other side of me was a hedge of jasmine. It was a warm night in June, and the jasmine fragrance filled the air. Venice was lovely, even in the lonely parts.
I stood on one of the many bridges and peered down to my reflection in the lapping water. The girl in the reflection looked different. Thinner from all the walking, despite all the eating. But she had a different kind of tired around her eyes. This time it wasn’t from too much paperwork under fluorescent lights. It was the look of a girl who was tired of carrying her luggage.
I thought back to the day I cleaned out my underwear drawer and to all those men whom my undies had represented. Why hadn’t any of those relationships worked out? I saw now, as I gazed down at this girl in the water, back then I had become who they wanted me to be. If a guy was a granola-eating hippie, so was I. If he was a hipster beach bum, I had a beach cruiser at the ready. Just let me lace up my Converse. If he was a runner, I was a runner. If he was a hiker, I’d buy books on local hiking trails and suggest a few. I’d stash oranges and chocolate in my backpack to surprise him with a treat at the top of the hill. Look at how amazing I am at hiking.
I was also agonizingly relatable. If they were arguing a point, I’d give them even more arguments in defense of their own point so they would feel even more correct in their opinions. I was convincing them to like me just as I convinced people to buy what I was selling in the junk mail I created. I would do and be whatever they loved because what I loved was being loved. Being loved was p
aramount to my own inner beliefs, opinions, and preferences. I took their traits and copied them as my own. Don’t worry about who I am. Who do you want me to be? Akemi was right. You’re a copywriter. That’s who you are. In junk mail and in life.
No, no. No.
I peered down at my reflection again, and something was wrong. I saw something that no longer belonged in my new life. I took off my apple pin and looked at it closely. I’d been carrying the dream of being a copywriter with me long after the dream faded. With one flick of my finger, I let it fall out of my hands and into the water, watching it sink into the murky waters of Venice. And with that, the last of my old wardrobe fell.
That girl peering back at me from the water was me, just me. The real me. Not the other versions I tried to be to win anyone over. I took a breath and exhaled. I forgave myself for my prior judgments of not being good enough to be just who I was. The truth was I was just doing the best I could with what I knew at the time. But now I knew better.
I thought I’d cry here on the bridge with all these insights pouring out of me. I used to cry every single day, usually about some boy, sometimes about pressure at work. There was always something to cry about. But now, I hadn’t cried since that tiny two-minute episode when I said good-bye to Christophe at the airport in Paris. How unlike me. Or, perhaps, the crying version of me no longer existed. That was who I was before, not who I was on this bridge in Venice. Along the way, I replaced a bad habit of being upset with a good habit of being happy. Could it really be that simple?
Christophe was the only man I dated with whom I could not contort my own personality to create his fantasy girl, simply because I didn’t have the language skills with which to do so. With Christophe, I had opinions, simple as they were. When he would ask if I wanted to go here or there, I would respond with Oui or Non. I used to respond with something like, “Well, if you’d like to. Are you sure? What do you want? If you want to go there, we will.” All these words! All these agreeables. I was tired of talking, tired of trying, tired of the costumes.
Paris Letters Page 9
