Not Mama's Little Girl, Anymore

Four

I dropped the class and never saw that Clay, er—Clem guy again while I was at Columbia. I graduated with honors. Thank you very much! If I could, I would stick my tongue out at those pompous jerks in that first year Civ class.

And to celebrate Claudia and I decide to go to Italy for our summer break before heading off into the working world. It is going to be epic!

"Isn't this so exciting? We are finally in Italy," I giggle as I grab my luggage from the baggage claim carousel. My best friend, Claudia, looks nervous as she observes the other travelers while they bustle around us.

Although we are like sisters, we look nothing alike. Claudia is tall and model thin, and while I have been called big-boned by Mama, I like to think of myself as voluptuous. A dark-haired man brushes by Claudia, causing her to yelp.

"The nerve -- some guy just pinched my butt. I thought things like that only happened in cheesy movies." Her voice squeaks while she gives the stink eye to the lecher with the roaming hands. He looks back and gives her a wink. Unable to keep from laughing, I feel immediate guilt at finding humor in my friend's discomfort. We move towards the rental car counters. I'm a little apprehensive about driving in Italy, but I know the thought of driving here terrifies my friend. How hard can it be? The Italians drive on the same side of the road as we do in the United States.

In front of each rental counter, customers jockey for position each one raising the volume of their voice to gain the attention of the staff. The use of one's hands while speaking Italian seems necessary if the scene before me was any indication. Claudia has her nose buried in a guidebook while I make a courageous effort to move into the crush. Each time I obtain a small degree of progress, I find myself pushed back once again.

At long last, my persistence pays off, and I stand in front of the harried staff. A suction-like pressure from the bodies surrounding me threatens to push me from my prime spot, and I make a frantic grab at the hard surface separating me from the man on the other side. I break two nails during my attempts to remain front and center. The swarthy employee—whose name, Giuseppe, is inscribed on his badge--stares at my hands which are clutched so tightly on his side of the counter my knuckles whiten with the strain.

I suspect the rental process will be arduous, but it seems to go smoothly. Perhaps Giuseppe is beguiled by my charms, or more than likely, he pities my desperation. Either way, we head out to the parking lot to find our Cinquecento (better known in the good old USA as a Fiat 500).

"I'm impressed, Natalie. I couldn't believe how much chaos there was at the rental agency. I read in the guidebook Italians don't typically wait in a line or queue," Claudia informs me as I turn out of the lot. The traffic leaving the airport is horrendous. Although only three lanes are available for outgoing traffic, the vehicles surrounding the Cinquecento are layered five or six across. Bigger cars and trucks forge their way through the packed roadway. Horns blare. Rapid-fire exclamations of frustration accompany the corresponding inappropriate hand gesticulations between motorists. Our rental inches forward.

Forty-five minutes later, Claudia and I have driven a block. The AC doesn't work, and perspiration drenches our clothing. Just about the time I contemplate having to sleep in the car, the bottleneck ends. The challenges I face once we get moving again include avoiding Vespas, unwary pedestrians, buses coming the wrong way down a one-way street (legal in Italia), and other Fiats.

After circling the area of the hotel trying to find a place to park, I decide to do what any Italian driver would do—I drive up onto the sidewalk outside the hotel. After all, when in Rome...I think you know the rest.

We manhandle our luggage into the hotel. I know three bags is a bit over the top, but this is Rome! I know the women here love fashion and I am sure as H-e-double-toothpicks not going to look like I fell off a turnip truck. Besides, a girl needs her accessories and her hair products. The chaos of the car rental counter is mild compared to the mess at Registration. It seems a tour bus of Italians are checking in, and a few brave foreigners attempt to work their way through it all. Other more rational travelers stand back and wait for the swarm to disperse.

I look over at Claudia, and she shrugs, finds a chair and sits down to wait. I'm antsy. I want to get checked into our room and take a nice hot shower and rest for a while. I end up pacing back and forth in the lobby, eyeing the registration desk as a child might cast wistful looks at gelato. I would say ice cream sundae, but I'm in Italy now.

On one of my passes, I notice an attractive dark-haired man with his gaze intent on me. Oh, yeah, this may be a great vacation. I smile and receive a smile in return. His stride is confident and sexual as saunters towards me. I bite my bottom lip in anticipation of what is to come.

"Signorina, are you driving a Fiat 500 that is parked in front of the lobby doors?" His voice is smooth and sexy with its Italian accent. Wait? What did he just say? Did he really ask me about where I parked?

"Yes, I am."

"Then, I must ask you to move it because it is ...how do I say it...against the code for fire."

Yup, I think I'm being hit on but nooo! I need to move the rental car. Really!!  After looking for a place to park the rental for 30 minutes and walking the ten blocks back to the hotel, I am finally standing in front of the front desk clerk.

"Buongiorno, Signorina. How can I be of assistance to you?"

"I'm Natalie Parker. We have a reservation."

"Si, Signorina Parker. I have a room for you and Signorina Allen." He smiles warmly, but by now I know all Italian men smile at you like they are in love with you. Within minutes, we are on our way up the elevator to our room.

Our Italian holiday is about to begin.