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While the family continues to gum up the works for the other passengers, I inspect my home for the next eight hours. My seat reminds me of those old eggshell chairs from the seventies. It’s not a private pod like First Class is rumored to have, but the shape boasts definite noise-blocking properties, and it affords some privacy.

The tension I felt earlier has completely lifted. This was such a good idea! I monkey with the controls of my seat to find it not only reclines almost flat, but also raises the legs. I already predict I’m going to spend the whole flight trying to figure out the best position.

Each seat is stocked with a few supplies, such as a toiletry bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste, lip balm, socks, and an eye mask. There’s also a down blanket and a thick pillow, so it’s a shame that most of the Annoying Family decided to bring their own, which they summarily shove in the overhead bins. As it’s only five p.m., I’m not exactly ready for bed, so I stuff all these items under the seat in front of me while I plug my iPad into my DC adapter. While the Annoying Family continues to jockey for position, I catch another episode of
Parks and Recreation
, which has
literally
become my favorite sitcom. (But, Rob Lowe, why are you leaving now that I’ve just found you?)

The middle-aged dad of the group decides to sit next to me and I watch as he fumbles everything he touches. Down go his blanket, his pillow, his toiletries, his laptop, his earbuds, etc. I sure hope Captain Butterfingers doesn’t have a job that requires he keep a grip on anything important.

Captain Butterfingers’s scantily clad Trophy Wife keeps jumping out of her seat to take pictures of her whole brood. She’s sporting a sheer sleeveless blouse and sporty-shorty-short shorts. Despite the plane being plenty bright, she insists on using the flash, thus blinding everyone in a three-row vicinity who happens to glance in her direction.

I should mention the entire rest of the plane is
still waiting to board
, which is made far more difficult as ninety-six pounds of sleeveless soccer mom insists on Instagramming every single moment that passes. Finally, one of the flight attendants has words with her and she grudgingly returns to her seat, which she then kneels on to continue with her photojournalism.

I know I said that everyone’s allowed to have “one thing,” but I’d wager this family indulges in more than their allotted share of annoying habits.

Captain Butterfingers then dumps his Diet Coke, thus necessitating more stopped traffic while the flight attendant mops him up, as Trophy Wife preserves the images for posterity. I would not like to be whoever’s forced to watch this family’s slide show upon their return home.

After spilling a bag of trail mix, Captain Butterfingers decides he’s going to watch a movie on his laptop. I’m really sad to be traveling alone because I have no one to whom I can whisper, “Just wait, he’s going to jam a regular plug into the DC adapter.” He bashes at his outlet like a baboon trying to start a Jeep with a stick.

I can’t stand to watch him struggle for so long, so I show him the package my new adapter came in, explaining that because this is an older plane, he’ll need a DC plug—which is basically a car cigarette charger. I tell him I’d read that the flight attendants have extras for those who need them, so he just has to ask. (As he’s an American, I assume he understands my use of the English language, but in a pinch, I could have told him the same in Italian.)

He nods and drops his plug back in his bag. I assume he’s going to hit his call button, but no. Instead, and I swear I’m not making this up, he begins to try again, only this time with a flat USB adapter, which is honestly and truly the old square peg–round hole conundrum.

At that point, I put my headphones back on, as you can lead a horse to quantum mechanics, but you can’t make him accept Feynman’s path integral formulation. Eventually, the old lady leans across me to yell at him that he’s doing it wrong while the Trophy Wife captures the moment and his sucker-holding children leave sticky snail-trails everywhere their fingers linger.

We have not yet even left the gate.

The couple to my right is the polar opposite of the Annoying Family. Upon boarding, I note their stylish yet practical travel garb—cute, wrinkle-free pants with numerous pockets, slip-on shoes, and lots of layers, with a pashmina for the lady. With the precision of an Indy pit crew, they ready their area before takeoff. I watch as they refuse the preflight champagne, instead swallowing sleep aids with their bottled water. They wrap themselves in blankets and dull their senses with noise-canceling headphones and eyeshades.

As soon as we’re in the air, they turn off their overhead lights and fully recline, preemptively shutting down jet lag before it even has a chance to set in. These two have to be old pros at this international travel thing, unlike me, who is now so excited I’m practically levitating out of my seat, or the Annoying Family, who’ve clearly never traveled without the warden before.

The eight hours pass largely without incident. Funny how you never remember the flights that go well and you never forget the ones that go awry. As I relax in my seat, I’m so grateful to have been able to get into Business Class and I appreciate having the extra space and the little courtesies. All those miserable flights
were worth it because they’re why I’m here. I’ve not only had eight hours of comfort, but I also had a month and a half of blissful anticipation of it, which is just as valuable.

After dinner service, when I eat the best pretzel roll of my life, I settle in to watch movies. I’m not able to sleep, largely because Trophy Wife keeps waking up fellow travelers with her incessant flashing, passing out mini candy bars, and her loud complaints of being cold. (Hint: It’s called “clothing”; look into it.) Just desserts will likely be served tomorrow when she drags five sugar-addled, jet-lagged children around the city.

At one point in the evening, I glance down at Captain Butterfingers’s choice of reading material and I silently laugh myself into an asthma attack when I realize he’s perusing a professional medical journal. Specifically, he’s reading about new techniques in urological surgery. And according to the label on the front, I note that he’s actually a physician.

Let’s milk this, shall we?

Captain Butterfingers is a
surgeon
.

I quickly write down his full name because I want to make sure I eliminate him from our list of participating heath care providers.

An hour before we land, I wash my face and brush my teeth after being served a light breakfast. Then I fix my makeup and review my itinerary so I know what to do once I’m on the ground. I’m supposed to meet a driver out past baggage claim. Normally, I’d have just taken a cab, but today’s a national holiday and I understand transportation is scarce.

I disembark easily and am waved through Customs without even having my passport stamped. I choose to believe that this is because I look like I belong, although the more likely scenario is that the Junior Varsity squad’s working today due to the Festa della Repubblica and it’s a free-for-all.

I quickly locate the driver and the last thing I see before we exit the airport en route to the parking garage is Dr. Butterfingers and his Annoying Family trying to figure out how to get to their hotel because there are no available cabs.

Sorry I’m not sorry.

17.

J
ULIA
R
OBERTS
L
IED TO
M
E

My first impression of Rome is . . . that it looks exactly like Houston.

I’m sorry, Rome, but it’s true.

Between the heat, the industrial areas surrounding the airport, and the sparse yellowing vegetation, I’m having a hard time believing I’m not in Texas right now. Even the signs on the highway look similar, save for being written in Italian.

The only real difference on this stretch of road thus far is the size of the cars—my goodness, these are the cutest things I’ve ever seen. So wee! So bite-sized! Most of them seem to be two-seaters, but we’ve passed a few that accommodate only one person, which are roughly the dimensions of my ex-tricycle, if it had doors. Rome must not have a Costco because no one could fit a bulk-sized pack of paper towels in one of these vehicles.

We arrive in the city proper in about twenty minutes and this is where the similarities with Houston end. I truly have a sense of
other
now, for the first time. Elaborate fountains abound and the streets are topped with square paving stones. The buildings are all
low, not more than three or four stories tall, all stucco, in various shades of gold, coral, and salmon, each with massive painted shutters. These structures appear to have been here for hundreds of years. The roofs are covered with brown or orange tiles and there’s very little green space on any of the main drags. Everything’s close and tight and I have approximately twenty-six consecutive heart attacks as three-wheeled death machines and Vespas dart in and out of traffic. I catch myself thinking this city looks just like a Vegas theme hotel, before I remember this is the real deal.

We wind through streets that are in no way linear, going up and down hills, so I haven’t a sense of north or south. I arrive at my hotel, which is a bit off the beaten path, in the northeast corner of the city. I’d decided to stay at a place close to the train station, just in case I want to take a day trip to Florence. My teacher assured me I’d not be bored in Rome, but I always prefer to have options. Also, there’s a rooftop pool, which was what sold me in the first place. I figured if at any point I become overwhelmed, I could take a swim and regroup. My mantra has always been—find a body of water or find a body; your call.

A bellman greets me at the entrance and, in my best Italian, I tell him I’m checking in. He immediately replies in English that he’ll have my bags sent up to my room. I reply thank you in Italian, because I’m here, damn it, and I plan to practice. The same thing happens at the registration desk: I speak Italian; the clerk replies in English. And when I say
buongiorno
to a hotel employee in the elevator, she also replies in my native tongue.

So it’s going to be like
that
, is it?

I realize I don’t look European, but with my snappy travelin’ scarf and my stylish shoes, I don’t appear to be overwhelmingly American, either. I mean, I’m not draped in the stars and stripes, clomping around in a cowboy hat or sparkling white sneakers, demanding ice in my drink. I could easily be British or Australian. Fine, both these countries speak English, and, granted, I
appreciate everyone’s trying to make everything easier for me to understand, but I studied really hard to be able to navigate without assistance, so I’d like to try.

I take the elevator up to the third floor. The door to my room is massive and solid wood, glossy to the point that I can guarantee these are rubbed with lemon oil daily. Inserting the key card, the first thing I notice upon entry is that instead of a full king bed, I have two large twins pushed together. While I should be disappointed at how not-romantic this is, I’m actually pretty psyched to have my own covers. Fletch is a known blanket thief and does this hugging and spinning move in his sleep that leaves me perpetually chilly.

The room’s on the small side, with only a tiny desk and a single chair, but the ceiling’s easily fifteen feet high, so it feels airy. The walls are padded and lined in fabric, and the draperies are heavy, so the whole place is cozy, too. I don’t hold out great hope for my view, and when I part the curtains, I see industrial air conditioners, exactly what I expected. Although I’d love a balcony with a view of the Piazza della Repubblica, I’m not paying for that luxury. Generally when I travel, I go for the least expensive class of room in a higher caliber property, as the overall amenities will be better. (Basically, this is the same theory as owning the worst home in a nice neighborhood. Case in point, my house.) At one point, the hotel was an actual palace, but this room indicates that even the maids had to sleep somewhere. Regardless, I’m happy to call this home for the next week.

As I’m a little delirious from not being able to sleep on the plane, despite a liberal dosing of prescription pharmaceuticals, it’s all I can do not to fall face-first into bed before my luggage is even delivered. Stacey says the best way to fight jet lag is to take as brief a nap as possible and then go to sleep at what would be a normal bedtime there, so that’s the plan.

I can’t inspect the bathroom yet, as I’m not sure how to turn
on the lights. I bash a bunch of buttons, with no luck. (Times I’ve bashed things = one hundred thousand; times bashing has produced the intended result = one.) (Figure this must have worked at some point; otherwise why would I continue to bash?) Then I realize that none of the lights function in the room, either. There has to be a trick here; I just have to figure it out. I’d call downstairs and ask, but imagine I’ll be annoyed when they reply in English.

When my luggage arrives, the bellman sticks my electronic key into a slot on the wall, which powers everything. Oh. I guess this is how they conserve electricity here, by not allowing the wasteful Americans to run the television and lights when they’re off walking the Forum. Makes sense. I’m an energy Nazi at home, perpetually following Fletch around to flip off switches, but when I travel, all bets are off because I hate coming back late to a dark, quiet room.