I sit in Ciampino airport, with all the time I need to wallow and wail at my own ineptitude. The flies stare at me, crawl over me, taunt me as I try to frighten them away. But flies are stalwart, daring, enterprising. Ciampino airport is an awful place. There are flies everywhere. This must be close to hell – or a garbage heap. On the bright side – there is always a bright side, even in the bright orange glow of hellfire – I am pleasantly drunk off an extremely inexpensive but mostly generous portion of grappa. B less Italians for inventing grappa. And bless the serving girl who so kindly kept on pouring when common sense and fiscal responsibility were screaming for her to stop. And curse my utter idiocy and uselessness. The blond Italian mother beside me is feeding her children sandwiches. Prosciutto Cotto. Grandissimo. Meanwhile, I have the minor consolation that I packed enough food to feed a family of four. And provolone is excellent with grappa. And dry Italian buns are better with good – I guess, the grappa may be in … and now the blond Italian sandwich-eating child beside me is speaking to me. In Italian. And now so is his grandmother. How lovely! So, food. Italian tomatoes – which are juicy and taste like tomato juice in an environmentally friendly, biodegradable container. Here the boy goes again, asking “why do you speak English?” in Italian, of course. Such existential questions from a 6 year-old. Tomatoes and provolone, Italian bread and grappa. So many diversions from dwelling on my complete and total stupidity. And now the p.a. is announcing something incromprehensible that might be for me. .. nope, Berlin. And I’m heading to Paris. Fully 3 hours too late, and from the wrong airport. I will soon find out whether my fate is to remain in Rome. Only 20 minutes til the Easyjet plane is scheduled to take off. And still no sign of a call to board. The previous flight, leaving from FUCK OFF YOU FLY! SHOO! GET THE HELL OFF OF ME! the same queue has yet to board. Hope is a fragile thing on such a day as this.
What an end to a strange week. My life is becoming the plaything of fates. Four days in Brussels. Flirting. Working. Kissing. Hoping. Then a plane to Rome. Made it in time, saw my mamma. Saw her off to the cruise ship. Then I hit the brick wall of not speaking Italian in Italy. And the port shuttle would not come. Walking through the port, climbing through zones not meant for pedestrians. Finally a walk on the beach, then ice cream, as the stars align and I find myself – as if by magic – at the train station. Then Rome again. And friends, scrambling for a hotel, gruff staff – kind, friendly, just a little too Godfather-ish at first. Finally dinner, drinks, more coffee – bless Italian coffee! Ending the day with a moonlit walk through Rome’s beautiful ruins.
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