I Regret Nothing Part 16

"No, at that point I'd already lost all credibility with the grown-ups in the room, but I knew. That was enough. I suspect I put enough fear in them that they won't do it again, though. So I added scare kids straight to my bucket list."

"Does it count when you retroactively add something you've already accomplished to your list?"

"Yes."

"Then you're a true American hero."

"d.a.m.n skippy. Someone should carve my face on a mountain in a national park. Hey, did you know that Mount Rushmore isn't a natural formation?"

"I feel like I should be concerned that you didn't." She took another small bite of her potato pancake, dabbing a bit of stray applesauce from her lip. "So, what's your takeaway from all of this? What was the big announcement you wanted to make when you invited me to lunch?"

"My takeaway is . . . I'm upgrading to Business Cla.s.s on my flight to Rome! I figured if I'm going to be stuck on a plane for an undisclosed amount of time, I should at least be able to recline."

"Sometimes you're a genius," she said, before quickly amending her statement. "Not about geography, though. You know you'll be flying over water this time, right?"

"Sort of?"

And so that's why I'm now here, crowding the gate, waiting to steamroll my way to my very first international Business Cla.s.s seat.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

When I board the plane, the flight attendant instructs me to cut through the galley to get over to the left side of the plane. I crane back to see if there's a curtain on the other side, but I can't actually tell if there's a First Cla.s.s section on this flight or not. If it's here, it's hidden, which is kind of bada.s.s. They don't need to mix with the hoi polloi that is us. So I make my way back to 5G.

I'd hoped this was to be one of those two-story planes, but no such luck. Stacey said she flew on one once and it was glorious, so perhaps I'll add that to my list at some point. (Again, retroactively counts.) Yet because this is such a special experience and since I waited so long in my life to do this, I don't want my thoughts muddied by wishing for something else in the middle of what's already a dream coming true. I just want to be in the moment.

I'm immediately taken out of the moment when an angry old lady with a battleship gray perm rams her plaid carry-on into my spleen as I lift my own bag into the overhead compartment. And she's not sorry she's not sorry. I guess I'm not proceeding quickly enough for her and she huffs with rage at having to wait for me to get out of her way. Listen, Betty White, crowding is acceptable only at the gate. Now that we're on the plane, you need to check yo-self; otherwise it's going to be a really long eight hours.

The old woman is traveling with her entire extended family-multiple kids and adult children trail in her wake, followed by a beleaguered older gentleman who I can already tell has taken more than his fair share of blows to the spleen. He looks to be plotting his escape. He and I exchange glances and he offers me a shrug of his defeated shoulders by way of apology.

The family has a.s.signed seats in the pods all around me, but that doesn't stop them from halting the boarding process for everyone else at the gate while they allow the children to try out each and every seat in determining which one they want. I watch as the tormented grandfather of the group sits as far away from his wife as humanly possible while still technically being a part of flight 110.

While the family continues to gum up the works for the other pa.s.sengers, I inspect my home for the next eight hours. My seat reminds me of those old eggsh.e.l.l chairs from the seventies. It's not a private pod like First Cla.s.s 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 b.u.t.terfingers doesn't have a job that requires he keep a grip on anything important.

Captain b.u.t.terfingers'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 pa.s.ses. 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 b.u.t.terfingers then dumps his Diet c.o.ke, 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 b.u.t.terfingers 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sume he's going to hit his call b.u.t.ton, 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 peground 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 pa.s.s 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 Cla.s.s and I appreciate having the extra s.p.a.ce 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 antic.i.p.ation 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, pa.s.sing 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 b.u.t.terfingers'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 b.u.t.terfingers is a surgeon.

I quickly write down his full name because I want to make sure I eliminate him from our list of partic.i.p.ating 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 pa.s.sport 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. b.u.t.terfingers 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.

JULIA ROBERTS LIED TO ME.

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 spa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.sive 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sured 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, d.a.m.n 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 a.s.sistance, so I'd like to try.

I take the elevator up to the third floor. The door to my room is ma.s.sive 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 cla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 n.a.z.i 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.

Still, if my hotel wants the lights off while I'm gone, that's what I'll do. My goal on this trip is to not be an Ugly American. I realize fellow countrymen don't always have the best reputation overseas, so I feel like it's my duty to be an amba.s.sador of sorts.

Also, I'd prefer not to be mocked in Italian, particularly because I understand a lot of the derogatory terms.

I even tried to pack in a way that was more European, with non-tennis-shoe footwear and cotton skirts for the days we visit religious sites. Instead of my usual summer uniform of alligator shirts and khakis, I've brought lots of light, gauzy peasant tops and airy Capri pants. Right before I left, I watched Roman Holiday and asked myself, "Would Audrey wear this?" about every item I chose. I even went so far as to buy a colorful dress to sport over my swimsuit, instead of my everyday choice of paint-splatted cutoff sweatpants. (Fancy!) And I brought a bunch of long scarves. Thus far, every single woman I've seen on the street has been wearing something draped around her neck, so I'm pleased at having gotten it right.

Now that there's light, I can finally see the bathroom and I'm thrilled that the horror stories of a hole cut in the floor are untrue. (I still have a purse full of Kleenex in antic.i.p.ation of the "You won't find toilet paper in any public Italian toilet" warnings, though.) Mine's a standard-issue, made in 'Merica-type hotel bath with an updated toilet, sink, shower, and bonus bidet. The counter's plenty wide for all my makeup and the hair dryer is powerful. I'm missing washcloths, but I can work around that.

(Sidebar: I receive a washcloth on the second day when I put my Italian to use to ask the housekeeper for a "tiny towel for my face." For some reason, they don't use them here. No idea why.) I flip on the television as I unpack, and immediately become entranced by the show Guardia Costiera, which is an outstandingly cheesy program about the Coast Guard. I'm already making a rule to limit my time with the television, lest I waste the whole trip mesmerized by dubbed reruns of Friends, which I didn't even watch in English.

Thus organized, I inspect the minibar, opening a package of shortbread cookies with big discs of chocolate baked in the middle. Is there anything more exciting than an exotic minibar? (No. No, there is not.) Then I put on my pajamas, draw the shades, and set my alarm for two hours later.

I figure if the rest of the city is as good as these cookies, then I'm in for a treat.

I've now been wandering around Rome for about two hours looking for the Trevi Fountain, finding myself utterly and completely lost because I'm incapable of reading a map. I'd ask Siri, except my cell phone won't work because either I didn't buy the right international data package or I don't have the Wi-Fi set up properly.

Somehow I suspect this is all Rome's way of paying me back for saying she reminded me of Houston.

I'm not stomping around angrily, though. I'm trying to take in everything I see and I keep b.u.mping into unexpected landmarks, like the Spanish Steps. History exists on every corner here. I can't go more than a few paces without discovering an ornate fountain or ancient church or a remnant of the old baths. And, my G.o.d, the people-watching! Every Roman woman is the physical embodiment of Sophia Loren, with elegance and confidence to spare. And Stacey was right-no one's wearing shorts. They're all in little sundresses or skirts or-please don't let this be a thing-elastic-bottomed harem pants. The Roman men are equally dapper and completely gorgeous, but for some reason, they're all shorter than the women.

When I was in my twenties, I was afraid of Rome after Joanna graduated and spent the summer with a Eurail pa.s.s. She said the Roman men were b.u.t.t-pinchers, calling, "Bella, bella!" while they followed her down the street.

Clearly, that's no longer going to be an issue, at least for me.

Not sure if I should celebrate the victory of becoming invisible or mourn the loss of what made me visible. But at least I don't have to bust out the Italian insults, so perhaps it's a draw.

The saying is that all roads lead to Rome. While this may be true for others, for me, all roads apparently lead to snacks. As lost as I've been in this magnificent city, I find myself standing in front of the Gelateria della Palma, which is the exact gelato shop my Italian teacher told me to visit because they have something like one hundred and fifty flavors. Never one to ignore serendipity, I step inside and order a cone topped with almond tiramisu mousse and pistachio gelato. And with my first bite, I can already determine that this trip has been worth it.

Real Italian gelato is both heavier and lighter than American ice cream due to being made with milk and eggs instead of cream. (Kind of like our version of frozen custard.) Gelato's also distinctive because there's less air pumped in while it's being made and it's served a few degrees warmer than ice cream. The amount of sugar seems different, too, as I taste more of the actual nut and coffee flavors rather than an overwhelming cloying sweetness. But none of the specifics matter as I plant myself on the bench in the middle of the shop, trying not to make om-nom-nom noises as I watch a tour group shuffle in, each wearing earphones and receivers in order to hear their tour leader.

As I've marched around the city, I've seen lots of groups being led here and there (wait, why didn't I follow any of them?) but this is the first time encountering a pack of Americans. Although the loud English is a heavy clue, I could have quickly identified them as fellow citizens by their f.a.n.n.y packs, cargo shorts, cowboy hats, and logo tees alone.

I make a mental note to tell Fletch not to pack like a jacka.s.s. I said this before I left, too, but it bears repeating.

I'm not sure why I believe I'm all EuroJen after having staked my flag in the gelato shop no more than five minutes prior to this group's arrival, yet here we are. But these people aren't following their tour guide's instructions on how to order and I'm bothered. Instead, they're barking commands at the nice employee who suddenly . . . doesn't seem to speak any English, despite our having the very conversation where I learned the difference between gelato and ice cream moments earlier.

Well played, gelato shop kid. Well played.

But I guess the Americans receive their just desserts (pun intended) when the tour leader apologizes for not turning off his mike while he used the restroom.

Ten euros says this was deliberate.

Before I exit the gelato shop, having finally figured out my location on the map, I buy the greatest possible Italian souvenir anyone could ever purchase. My new prize possession is a giant rainbow sucker with a picture of Pope Francis on it.

I call it a Lolli-Pope.

I walk for hours and for miles, trying to figure out where all the points of interest are because I don't want the city to feel confusing for Fletch. Even after I bought the plane ticket, I had to sell him on the idea of leaving his comfort zone. Right before I left, he spotted a note my friend Jenny sent me about places to eat. Her husband, Jason, recommended we try the restaurant Il Pagliaccio, saying: The food was tremendous, service awesome, and the setting was in a pretty sunken room with domed ceilings. They also serve an overpriced coffee that uses a bean that was partially digested and s.h.i.t out by a rat. Not kidding. Of course I tried it. And, yes, it was delicious.

"Are you going to try to make me drink rat-s.h.i.t coffee?" Fletch demanded, pointing at that line in the e-mail. "Because those are exactly the kind of stunts they pull over there to make Americans uneasy."

Wearily, I replied, "No one's making you drink rat-s.h.i.t coffee." Although that was exactly my plan, had I not been busted. Now he doesn't entirely trust me, with good reason, so I want to smooth the way for his arrival as much as possible.

Anyway, what surprises me most so far is how these tiny cars drive everywhere, even down the alleys that are filled with sidewalk cafes and in no way resemble roads. For years, I thought my Sicilian grandfather was a menace behind the wheel and only now do I realize that he was simply an Italian driver.

Around dusk I decide I'm hungry, so I find a picturesque outdoor cafe right around the corner from the Spanish Steps. I'm as intrigued by their menu as I am by the promise of free Wi-Fi, as I've been radio silent for the past six hours. But because I'm not online I have no way to check out whatever the Italian version of Yelp is, so I take my chances.

I start with a gla.s.s of wine and ask for the prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella dish as my primi piatti (first plate), followed by the spaghetti carbonara, which is a creamy pasta dish-similar to an alfredo-made with pancetta. Years ago, when I worked at the Olive Garden, they occasionally had carbonara as a special and I was apes.h.i.t for it. I'd spend the whole shift annoying the cooks, making sure they'd have enough ingredients left over for my order at the end of the night. Magically delicious as carbonara was in Fort Wayne, Indiana, in 1992, I can't even imagine the majesty about to appear on a plate here where pasta was born.

I feel like I have to pinch myself, sitting at an outdoor table on a Roman side street, Vespas zipping by, with accordion music in the background, about to try the authentic versions of the cuisine I already love so much. I congratulate myself on having made travel part of my bucket list; otherwise I might never have come here.

My appetizer's served and I can't stop staring at my plate, trying to figure it out. Even though prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella appear to be exactly the same as the stuff I buy at the grocery store at home, I'm sure that the looks must be deceiving. Maybe Italy's more about the local, rustic ingredients and doesn't get all wrapped around the axle about the presentation like in American restaurants. This plain white plate, the same you'd find in any greasy spoon, is neither twee nor artisan. Maybe food in Italy is all substance, and who cares about style?

I slice off a tiny bite of the mozzarella, wrapping it in a bit of prosciutto before popping the delectable morsel in my mouth. I follow Mich.e.l.le the Nutritionist's advice, chewing slowly and deliberately for maximum impact.

Turns out the looks are actually not deceiving.

In fact, what I buy at the Sunset grocery store is actually a lot better than what's in front of me. The dried ham lacks any discernable flavor and has the consistency of old Bubble Yum, while the buffalo mozzarella is a lump of bland, served on a plate of apathy.

I take a bite of the bread, which is grainy and stale and ever so slightly pungent.

WTF, Italy?

But afraid of seeming like an Ugly American, I don't want to complain. Maybe prosciutto is supposed to taste like under-salted shoe leather and I've just been eating candy-coated, super-spiced American versions at home. I have a few more bites before giving up. Doesn't matter if this is the authentic Italian way-I simply don't like it.

My carbonara arrives and it's . . . not a color I've ever been served before. Sometimes carbonara contains an egg stirred in at the end, so the dish can be a pale golden hue. But what's in front of me is the bright yellow of a bottle of French's mustard. I poke at the pasta, searching for the pancetta, wondering if I've been served the wrong item. When the waiter comes to check, I explain that I don't see any pancetta and he points to something the size of a micro-grain smeared on the side of the bowl, rolling his eyes as he saunters off.

I take a bite and taste what's absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt boxed pasta mixed with canned cheese . . . and now I'm mad because this means I've literally had better meals at the Olive Garden, especially because back in 1992 they made their pasta from scratch.

How is this my luck? Not only did I have the one Italian nonna who couldn't cook, but now I've apparently stumbled into the place that taught her everything she knew.

I feel like Julia Roberts lied to me.

Did she not run around Italy in that movie, eating in places exactly like this, right in front of the perfect photo op, losing her mind over all the food?

This is the exact moment I realize what I've done wrong. I'm sure Julia Roberts (really, author Elizabeth Gilbert) didn't go to restaurants a stone's throw from a ma.s.sive tourist attraction, because her phone probably worked and she could pull up Italian Yelp. You know what you get in Chicago when you eat by the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier?

Bubba Gump Shrimp.