0451471075 (N) (25 page)

“What do you mean neutral? How is neutral an option?”

He tucked his pencil behind his ear while we talked. “I mean, in theory, it could be interesting. But if I could go anywhere, I’d pick Hawaii. I’d like to see the Schofield Barracks again.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Given the opportunity, you’d rather see the place you were stationed in the army than one of the Seven Wonders of the World?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Calmly, he replied, “Yes, and how is this an argument? You asked me my opinion and I offered it. I’d go to Hawaii.”

What he failed to grasp was that this wasn’t the answer I wanted.

“You’d prefer to visit the place you once did a whole bunch of push-ups and went thirty days without a shower rather than witness where the ancient Romans built aqueducts to bring water to a million citizens?”

Fletch rolled up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, which he wore layered over a thermal shirt over a T-shirt topping an undershirt because the house was still frigid at that point. Being so cold in my office was one of the reasons I picked Rome—all the guidebooks said it was sweltering in June and I longed to feel warm again.

Fletch explained, “We didn’t shower when we were in the mountains doing a month of jungle ops. On base I showered every day. Sometimes twice if we were going out in Waikiki.”

“Congratulations, Corporal Clean.”

He returned his focus to his drawing, taking his pencil and tapping the diagram. “Hey, how do
you
feel if I were to replace the rotten drawer parts entirely? Just toss ’em because they’re gross. I don’t have the tools to do proper dovetail, but I can craft a decent routed lock joint with that leftover maple.”

I swear some days I married Ron Swanson from
Parks and Recreation
. I know he’s a fictional character, but every character has some basis in reality. I gritted my teeth as I answered him. “Neutral.”

“Fair enough.”

I sat down across from him. “You really wouldn’t want to go to Rome? Even though they basically invented coffee?”

He glanced up from his plans. “The Ethiopians invented coffee.”

Was that true? That sounded true.

Shit, I needed a new tactic.

“Okay, fine, maybe they didn’t invent it, but they perfected
it. They were all, ‘Hey-a, Luigi, what if we put a little foamed milk in-a here-a?’”

“I’m sure that’s exactly how it happened and I’m glad to see your Italian lessons have paid off.”

“You have no curiosity about Europe whatsoever. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, Europe
is
full of Europeans,” he replied.

I feared this was the facial hair talking. He really didn’t go The Full Swanson until he grew the beard and mustache a couple of years ago.

And did the
Parks and Rec
writers have a camera in my house? Granted, I’d never actually watched the show, but I’d seen enough Swanson GIFs to know that we may have had a case for likeness rights.

He continued. “Besides, if we have the cash to spare, I’d rather replace the carpet in the family room. Smells like the elephant house at the zoo in there. No, the
penguin
house, because it’s wetter and more organic.” He shuddered. “Awful. I’m embarrassed every time someone comes over. Bet we could knock that project out ourselves in a weekend.”

That’s when I lost it.

“No! No one puts replacing pee-stained carpet on their bucket list! A bucket list item is supposed to be
meaningful
and makes you put forth effort to learn and try and grow!” He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Don’t you dare even draw a breath to tell me that replacing carpet takes effort. A bucket list item exists because once you check it off, you get to enjoy the
memory of having done it
forever
! Plus, you’ll have a shot of yourself standing in front of the Colosseum for perpetuity and YOU CAN’T DO THAT WITH BERBER.”

He put down his pencil. “You already bought my ticket, didn’t you?”

I couldn’t hide my massive grin. “Let me just say this—we’re both going to need a passport.”

“Then I guess I’m going to Rome, too. But for now, I’m going to mend this drawer.”

The best part of planning a trip like this is that there are a million little milestones to celebrate along the way. Take, for example, the day we went to Walgreens in Lake Bluff to have our passport photos taken.

(Sidebar: I’d planned to glam up as I do for any government ID, but at the last moment, I opted for a messy ponytail and a scowl, assuming that’s how I’d appear to customs agents after an overseas flight.)

As soon as we told the cashier we wanted passport pictures, it’s as though we entered some underworld crime lab. We were spirited away to the side of the store, where the employee flicked a switch that raised a background screen and closed the entire store’s blinds. Start to finish, the whole process—which I assumed would be a bureaucratic nightmare—took four minutes. Then we went to the local passport office and filled out our forms, which took maybe ten minutes.

And less than two weeks later, my passport arrived, whereupon I whooped with such intensity that I lost my voice for three days.

(Sidebar: Thank you, US State Department, for not including weight on the passport application, as I’d prefer to not commit treason here.)

(Additional sidebar: Fletch said it would be a felony, not treason. Potato, po-tah-to. Either way, I appreciate it.)

For so long, I couldn’t even imagine taking a trip overseas because I assumed the process was too daunting, but once I finally found my birth certificate (more on that shortly), securing a passport was easier than going to the DMV, especially the branch in Deerfield that accepts VISA but not MasterCard. How is that possible? I was unaware these two entities could even
be
separated. So, everyone who needs a new driver’s license but has a MasterCard has to go down to the cigar store to use their ATM, whereupon they will immediately smell like a Macanudo for the rest of the day. The cigar store owner’s delighted with the foot traffic and the fees, so he’s happy to oblige, but that still doesn’t explain what the State of Illinois’s problem is with MasterCard in the first place.

Anyway, I even had an excellent experience applying for Global Entry/TSA Pre-Check status. After my passport was processed, I filled out my application online, and when I passed the initial screening, I had to go to the airport to meet with Homeland Security. I’d envisioned being chained to a table in a spotlit interrogation room where they’d grill me for hours. The reality was that I had a terrific chat with an officer who’d dated a friend of a friend. I didn’t even have to write an essay on Why Terrorists Are Terrible. (Bit of a disappointment there, actually.) The only difficult portion of getting my Global Entry pass was figuring out where the office was located in Terminal Five at O’Hare.

(Sidebar: The Homeland Security office is downstairs, next to a McDonald’s, and if you go at the beginning of March, you can get a Shamrock Shake to drink on the way home.)

Having put the pieces in place so easily, I was super-elated about the trip. Given the amount of research I’d done, and considering how smoothly everything had flowed thus far, I felt confident that I could handle any challenge that came my way. I didn’t start to grow nervous until a few weeks ago at my last Italian class of the semester.

“You know Rome is the pickpocket capital of the world,
right?” one of the other students asked. (I’d been moved to a more advanced class partway through this semester, and regrettably, I hadn’t learned anyone’s names yet. And although I missed some of the other students I bonded with first semester, I appreciated the faster pace.) “You have to be on your guard every minute.”

“But I travel to big cities all the time for work and I lived downtown for fifteen years,” I said. “I know how to be on my guard. Italy can’t be that different.” I’d purchased an ugly black canvas purse with locking zippers and a cut-proof strap, figuring that would be insurance enough. I’d also made copies of all my documents, keeping one for myself, and sending one to Joanna for safekeeping, plus I burned the info onto a stick drive. I had a money belt, as well as a little envelope that attached to my bra to hold extra credit cards. I wasn’t planning on wearing nice jewelry, either. Wasn’t this enough?

“Oh, it
is
that different,” another student intoned. “They’ll bump into you and while they’re apologizing, another person will be swiping your wallet, quick as can be. They work in teams. And all those kids running around who seem so cute? They’re meant to be a distraction while their totally normal-looking parents steal your jewelry right off your arm. Boom. Gone. Gypsies. And don’t even think about taking a bus or a train—they’ll rob you blind.”

“I had no idea,” I admitted, my stomach beginning to twist.

“And make sure you have your RFID protectors over everything, including your passport. In Europe, they can use radio frequency to steal all your information—they don’t even have to touch you. They can just pass really close by.”

Panic began to creep in. “Shit.”

“What about the store thing?” added the classmate sitting across from me. “You can’t touch anything in a shop without permission. I learned that the hard way.”

“What?”

What was going to happen to me in a store?

“It’s rude for you to touch anything without asking. Also, you’d better make sure you greet them when you walk in or they’ll yell at you.”

“Is that insane? That seems insane considering what portion of their revenue comes from tourism,” I said. The last time I actually left the country (1997, I think?) I remember Cancun feeling extra safe, like there was societal pressure to keep visitors secure to ensure the flow of tourist dollars. The Mexican people we met down there couldn’t have been more solicitous or service-oriented. Maybe they hated us behind closed doors, but they sure were nice to us face-to-face.

My classmate shrugged. “That’s Rome for you.”

I began to worry that I’d prepared for the trip all wrong; instead of learning how to ask for directions or how to order in a restaurant, I should have been memorizing phrases such as:

Andare a farsi fottere, borseggiatore!
(Go fuck yourself, pickpocket!)

Io ti schiaccerà il piccolo capo italiano come un brufolo.
(I will pop your tiny Italian head like a zit.)

Sono una Americana, quindi ho una pistol.
(I’m an American, so I have a gun.)

I figured the statement about the weapon would come across more menacing if I actually spoke it in low tones, so that’s how I practiced.

Still, even with a semifunctional grasp on Italian profanity, the more I heard about travel dangers, the more I began to worry. I wish that I hadn’t sought out advice, as I was much happier in my ignorance, but once I began to gather information, I couldn’t stop.

I began cross-examining my friends, too, as they’ve all traveled internationally. (FYI, none of them has ever made Stale Bun Pizza or contemplated whizzing in a bucket. I feel these items may all be related.)

Tracey warned me of the dangers of pulmonary embolisms in
flight, so I had to buy compression socks. Gina cautioned me that I could be deemed an easy mark because I’m too polite. Stacey was the one who issued the direst warning. “No matter what, make sure you pack every piece of clothing you could possibly need. There are no fat Europeans and if you forget your swimsuit, you’re fucked.”

I was so busy heeding her advice and trying to Tetris-style every conceivable piece of clothing I owned into my luggage that it didn’t even occur to me to wonder
why
they aren’t fat. How are they not fat, living in the pasta and Buffalo mozzarella capital of the universe?

I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

If I don’t implode from anxiety first.

The few instances that Fletch and I vacationed in Las Vegas over the years, all we had to remember to bring was a credit card, as anything else was available twenty-four/seven in that city. In Vegas, you can literally call any hotel concierge and say, “Can I get a howler monkey wearing a tiny hat delivered to my room immediately?” and they’d be all, “Certainly. Fedora or fez?” And as for our one other vacation, to the Hamptons, that trip entailed nothing more than adopting a smug sense of self-satisfaction, which fit just fine in our carry-on bags.

So far the only hard part of going to Italy was tracking down my birth certificate. Of course, had Fletch mentioned that he kept a special binder of all our important paperwork BEFORE I tore through every single plastic bin in the basement, I might have been spared some aggravation.

Then again, I would never have found my name tag from when I worked at the Olive Garden in 1992, so my search wasn’t a total loss.