The best place to be when you are overworked, underpaid, and nearing starvation: with Italians.

It was December 10^th and somewhere in the back of my mind (and the uppermost part of my gut) had begun to form the anxiety surrounding the question of whether I would be allowed to fly home for Christmas – an anxiety which would grow and have plenty to feed on for another ten days to come. Earlier that day I was in Rome, Italy. (I specify Italy in case someone might think I meant Rome, Georgia, or Rome, Indiana, or the one in Iowa, or Maine, or Maryland, or Michigan, or Minnesota, or New York, or Ohio, or Oregon, or Pennsylvania, or Wisconsin, or any of the sixteen cities named Rome that are not located in Italy). The American Apparel in Rome, Italy is situated at number 155 via dei Serpenti. Take a second to look that up on Google Maps, if you would be so kind. When you do, you will immediately notice that this American Apparel is 500m away from the Colloseum. The Colloseum. 500 meters. In fact, standing outside the American Apparel, I could see the Colloseum. For a second, I thought to myself: that can’t be The Colloseum – but a quick check on my iPhone assured me that this was the one. Having arrived in Rome close to midnight the night before, heading straight to the hotel, and ordering in room service, it was only in the light of day the next morning as I arrived at the store that I realized my good fortune. I had a train to Milan to catch at four in the afternoon, it was currently just before ten o’clock in the morning: I would get my work done as efficiently as possible and leave myself just enough time to stroll past the Colloseum on my way to the station. Now obviously if this story ended successfully I wouldn’t very well bother repeating it now. I am imparting this anecdote in order to give you a sense of my mood later on in this day, and that mood is not going to be a cheerful one.  I won’t trouble you with the details of the delays, suffice it to say that there were many and I finished work just in time to hail a taxi to the nearby Termini and catch my train without so much as stopping to take a picture of the historic site. It was on this train ride, I believe, that the Christmas-allowance anxiety began to form.

Google Street View of the Colloseum from the American Apparel store front.
(Because I literally do not have a picture)

 Another thought that might have been contributing to my anxiety, though significantly less so, was the fact that I had run out of money. It was one of those many times where my expenses were being processed and repaid at a rate extraordinarily slower than that at which I incurred them. It would be another three days before I was paid and as I was travelling alone I had no co-worker to cover my expenditures in the mean time.  This definitely posed a problem for my immediate wellbeing. Transportation and accommodations were already paid for of course, it was a mere matter of paying for food and the occasional taxi. As it happened, the train station I arrived at in Milan was a €50 taxi ride away from the hotel I was to stay in. As I watched the meter increase by what seemed like unusually large increments, yet my destination appear no nearer, I hoped I could rely on that grace period where my credit card company has not yet processed all the charges I have made and thus allows me for that time to go far beyond my limit. When we arrived at the Times hotel, I handed the driver my card to test this theory and he said something lovely-sounding to me in Italian, and I said something Germanic-sounding in English, then he said some more Italian things, and I tried saying some Spanish things; this was followed by louder Italian on his part, and then louder Spanish on mine.  I fully comprehended that he did not accept credit cards and that I was to procure €50 in cash for him at my earliest convenience, but as I had no means of doing so I decided my best bet was to continue to behave like an imbecile tourist until he realized the futility of the situation and sent me on my way to spare himself the breath. This, unfortunately, did not happen. He stepped out of the vehicle – a moment in which I admittedly ran more than a dozen harrowing scenarios through my mind – and failing all of these, he went into the hotel and told on me. 

Of all the possible outcomes of this situation, the result was one which I truly feel could have only occurred in Italy – or perhaps in St. John’s Newfoundland: the hotel concierge paid for my taxi, another staff member carried my suitcase up to my beautiful room, then the two of them insisted I come back down to the hotel bar for a drink on the house. The bartender rejoiced in practicing his English (which sounded remarkably like Italian to me), and told me he would make me a drink of any colour I chose (I was tempted to say ‘brown’ in the hopes of getting a Manhattan, but it seemed more in keeping with the spirit of the game to say ‘pink’). When I had to confess I was out of money in turning down the food menu, or having a second drink, the bartender insisted it did not matter and he would bring me some anyway.  Under any other circumstances this finger food and girly cocktail would never make it to the annals of any food revue, but on the conditions of this evening, they were absolutely exquisite.

My bottomless drink and snacks courtesy of the Times.