One year later, I was very excited to be taking my second flight abroad. This time to Italy to join my husband for the first two weeks of his last term with Rhode Island School of Design where he was earning his master’s in art education. As had been the case with the England trip, coordinating our arrivals got complicated. He was traveling with his fellow classmates out of Boston. Including me on their flight was not possible–something about me not being a student, and liability. Consequently, I found a flight out of New York that would be arriving in Rome within an hour of their flight. The plan was to meet up at the airport…somehow…and I would then join the group on their bus to the Pensione.
While standing in line to board the plane to Rome, the woman in front of me turned around and said with great excitement, “I’ve never flown into Ciampino before. Have you?”
“What is Ciampino?” I asked. She went on to explain that we were on a charter flight and that we had been rerouted to the smaller airport in Rome.
I’m sure a look of horror appeared on my face. “You mean, we’re not going to Leonardo DiVinci now?”
She shook her head.
My head began spinning. There was no way of getting this new information to my husband. I imagined him looking all over the airport for me. I imagined how worried he would be. I thought about what I would do if things were reversed. I would check the Arrivals board and find that the flight number I had been given would not be listed. I would probably start to cry from panic and worry.
Where was Ciampino? How far was it from Leonardo DiVinci? How would I get into Rome? How would I get to the Pensione? Did I have the address for the Pensione? I rifled around in my carryon bag and was relieved to find a paper with both the address and phone number for the residence written on it. The answers to the rest of my questions would just have to wait until I arrived and found out what I would be facing. It was nearly impossible for me to relax.
I am a planner. I am an obsessive planner. I have Plan A, Plan B, often a Plan C, and on certain occasions, notions for other contingencies. The situation was anxiety provoking, and I didn’t like the feeling at all. But, there was nothing to be done, except maybe learn a few Italian words and phrases. For instance, Where is the bus to Rome? might come in handy. So I memorized Dov'è l'autobus per Roma?
After landing at Ciampino, I felt I had been transported back in time. We descended a flight of steps to exit the airplane onto the tarmac. The sun was blazing down from a perfectly clear blue sky. The barely more than a quonset hut terminal was 50 yards away. No one was there directing us, and the general attitude of the personnel was that of boredom. I followed everyone else and stood in line to have my passport stamped. When I asked the official, Dov'è l'autobus per Roma? he started speaking Italian and pointing in a direction off to my right. I, of course, had no idea what he was saying. Note to self: if you’re going to ask a question in a foreign language, you better have an idea of how to interpret the answers. I nodded and said, “Grazie.”
I watched my fellow travelers to figure out the baggage claim. I watched to see what others were doing to exit the airport. Some were getting in cars, some were getting in taxis, and some were walking along a fence line and out a gate. There had been no opportunity to exchange dollars for Lira. The image of Blanche DuBois came to mind as I sighed and thought, I have always relied on the kindness of strangers. I followed the line of people out the gate.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, we seemed to be walking to nowhere. I couldn’t see any sort of landmarks. There was no skyline of the city. There was what looked like farmland to my right, and to my left were some nondescript buildings–maybe homes for all I could tell. Ten minutes into the walk, which I was hoping wouldn’t turn out to be a sort of Bataan Death March, I saw people disappearing into the ground, as if they were falling off the edge of the Earth. It was a stairwell–no markings–descending to what I supposed was a subway station. Down I went.
An agent sat inside a booth. People plugged tokens into a nearby turnstyle, which then opened to allow them to enter to board the train. I stopped and stared at the turnstyle. I had to spend a moment admonishing myself not to cry because I really now didn’t know what to do. I looked pleadingly over at the agent who waved me over to his booth. What a forlorn little thing I must have been after my long flight. He began speaking to me in Italian. The only thing I could think to do was to show him the paper with the address of the Pensione and a US Dollar bill. He began nodding his head. He then pointed to a little side gate attached to his booth and it opened to let me through. “Grazie grazie grazie!” I said with a big smile on my face. He waved me off and said, “Buona fortuna Bella!”
I sat down on the train and looked around for a subway map. I studied the map to decide what my current location was and to guess at which point I should get off. I decided my best bet would be the station with the biggest red circle: Roma Termini. Once there, I looked around for a place to exchange currency, but still found nothing. I stopped someone who looked official to ask, Dov'è l'autobus per… and then showed him my Pension address. “Ah, si, si, numero cinque cinque due.” I stared as I tried to use what little Spanish and French I knew to translate. “Cinque cinque due,” I repeated. “Si, si…” and then as if he thought I was hard of hearing he enunciated as he held up his fingers, “Five…five…two.” It was hard for me not to laugh. Instead I said, “Grazie!” and headed out the door to a vast parking lot filled with buses.
I was exhausted. Dragging my luggage behind me was no small feat. I walked through the parking lot, sweating with every step looking for the numbers 552 on each bus. At last I found one. I showed the driver the Pensione address and he waved me on board. I used hand signals to try and get him to understand that I needed him to tell me when to get off. “Si, si!” he said.
I sat right behind the driver because I was so afraid of not getting off at the right spot. Everytime the bus stopped, I made eye contact with him. He shook his head each time until finally, he nodded his head and said, “Buona fortuna Bella!” I said, “Grazie grazie!” *
But now what to do? Where was the Pensione? I looked to my right. I looked to my left. I looked for street signs. I was so tired that even the thought of walking any distance seemed impossible. I decided to stop a stranger and show her my paper. She spoke in Italian and pointed me across the street. I crossed the street and stopped another stranger who pointed me to keep walking. I looked up at the numbers on the buildings and there it was: Pension Arenula. I entered to find myself face to face with a long flight of stairs. With a big sigh, I began to climb with my suitcase.
The receptionist greeted me in English. I asked about the RISD students. They had not arrived yet. She told me I would have to wait for them before I could check in. She indicated a padded bench for me to sit on and wait. I sat and worried that they would be delayed because they would be looking for me and wouldn’t want to leave me on my own. I reasoned that perhaps my husband would offer to stay behind and they would make plans on how to get him to the Pensione. It was a very long 20 minutes as I waited and worried. But, then, a clamor of voices, and the sound of many people walking up the steps made me brighten that the group may be here. They were laughing and talking all at once. As they began to file in, I looked and looked for my husband. He was one of the last people to step into the lobby.
I anxiously anticipated how relieved he would be to see me safe and sound. He only said, “Oh, good, you got here.” I was very deflated by his bland greeting. He hadn’t been in the least worried. He said he was confident I would figure it all out. Well, that was something, to have someone with that sort of confidence in my abilities. I was just glad we were all now together and ready to enjoy Italy together. And we did! It was a wonderful trip that included Italian lessons, great food and wine, side trips to Sperlunga, Florence, and Venice, and a fun story about making fish chowder for the whole group before I left to go back home. (https://authordjanderson.blogspot.com/2017/03/lost-in-translation.html)
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2023
* Later that day I found out that I should have purchased a bus ticket before boarding. Drivers do not collect tickets, only transportation officials, who may or may not board a bus to collect them. Many people take their chances and ride the buses without paying. If you are caught, the fine is steep. But I didn’t get caught, and thank goodness! They would have taken me straight to jail.
