When in Rome, do what the Romans do!

We got settled in our seats, happy to take a break from the last few months of having to plan a wedding while rehearsing for a play. Now, husband (HB) and I could relax. My passport was amended to reflect my new status as Mrs. Russell. The plane never left. I dozed off and on and still we were grounded.

We were asked to disembark our plane at Dulles after being held in the cabin for over an hour. A bad thunderstorm came and made us late for our connection flight to NY. It was a zoo when we arrived in JFK. No amount of explanation and appeal could get us to Rome. HB had to be in there for a meeting the next morning with a Big-5 accounting firm. While the airline could put him in the next available flight, and his firm would pay for first class, he turned to me and asked if I minded going back to Washington, DC. I was okay with that. I have been to Rome a few times before. But even that possibility went for naught. No flights were leaving. It was almost midnight and he was still negotiating our flights for the next day. The airline booked us into a hotel in the Big Apple for the night. It was past midnight.

The flagship of fleabag hotels in NYC was waiting for us. It was so bad that we could see cables sticking out of the hallways. “Please do not get used to this.” This was the mantra HB would always remind me. When we got into our room, we both decided to sleep in our clothes for fear of contamination. I could not wait to get this night over with. With much trepidation, I took a hot shower at dawn’s break and we were out of there as fast as we could and buried the memory of the last nightmarish twelve or so hours. We caught “Les Miserables” in Broadway to while our time and proceeded to the airport, got into our Swissair flight and off we were, to a new start.

Rome was happy to see us or was it the other way around? I have forgotten how crazy they drove on the Auto Strata. HB told me to hold his hand and close my eyes. It was awful! There was no seat belt and I was scared I would make Kris into an orphan. I must have made an impression on the cabbie. He stopped somewhere and got out, came to the passenger’s cab and took out the seatbelt, which was tucked under the seat! He motioned me to put it on and off we flew! The five-star hotel we were staying in was situated right across from the American Embassy at the Via de Venetto. It was not lost on me that it was next to a Salvatore Ferragamo shoe store, which I could only afford a pair if I were willing to forfeit a full week’s salary. And I was not used to that :-)

Before being a mom, and before being a wife, I travelled on a shoe-string budget. My travel buddies and I would save enough to buy our airline tickets, get some pensions lined up, survive on cheap eats and cheap wine. One year, we ended up staying in a pensione in Italy that was managed by a Filipina maid. It was owned by a priest who was not in residence. The pensione faced the street called Via de Merulala. Miss Letty was forever asking us to hush up, like the pensione was part of the Vatican! The more she told me to hush, the more I cackled because she was so scandalized by our rowdy group of seven. We teased her; asked if she and the priest were having an affair and does the Pope approve, is he handsome, any plans of taking him to the Philippines? She kept saying “Ay naku, patawarin kayo ng Dios!” (May God forgive you!)

Miss Letty was an enterprising woman. She asked if we were interested in shopping for Italian designer goods. She then proceeded to open a walk -in closet. She had a whole walk –in closet full of leather goods in there. Gucci, Ferragamo, Celine, Cartier, Balenciaga, she had them neatly stacked, wallets, purses, shoes. She also had bottles of Holy Water, “rosaries blessed by the Pope you only need to wave it during the procession from the Vatican on Thursdays.” She had post cards, with stamps already affixed to them, “you only need to leave them with me and I will post them for you.” She also cooked some Filipino food for us, hoping to quiet us down with purses and food.

My friends and I took a bus into town and there were Filipinos in the bus. They said to us, “So, you look like you just arrived. Too bad the Signorinas are not hiring these days. Are you looking for jobs?” We told them that we were touring, we were not looking for a job. So they told us to go to the train station to eat Filipino food. We were not prepared for what we saw. There were hundreds of Filipinos at the train station. They were selling cooked food from the trunks of their cars. There were people playing mahjong on a card table, situated on the sidewalk, complete with miron (kibitzer). We bought some noodles and had small talk with some of them. They were teachers, engineers, accountants, etc., working as domestic helpers in Italy.

A few years before this trip with my friends, I visited my friends in Belgium and stayed for over three months. During my stay, I was introduced to some of the domestic helpers (DH) working in Brussels. They were hard-working and hospitable. I had the opportunity to be their guest in a room not much bigger than my bedroom at home, and there would be a total of five women in that same room. And yet, they gladly shared with me their food, their laughter, their friendship, and their stories.

Here in our beautiful room, HB and I got settled in and went out for stroll along the avenue. That evening, we had dinner in one of the cafes along the avenue, and the next day, he went to his meetings. I took strolls around the blocks, lined with oleander trees and teeming with people in their fashionable outfits. I ventured out to the Spanish Plaza, sitting on the steps, making a mental note of a restaurant named Domino. On the way back, I stared longingly at a pair of Salvatorre Ferragamos next door to the hotel. Ah, so close and yet so far in my horizon.

The accounting group was hosting a formal dinner for twelve people including us that evening. I wore a little black dress and a pair of high heels. I was horrified that I was not going to sit next to HB, was worried I would make a fool of myself. I was mentally taking it all in. There were just too many things to remember. I did not want to embarrass myself and my husband. I know a few reliable concepts: Red wine, meat. white wine, fish or seafood. Bread dish, left. Glasses, right. Dessert spoon, above my plate. Okay, what the heck were those extra darn things for?

The waiters served us in unison and I was mesmerized by the synchronization of it all, akin to how I feel when I am directing a play and the actors are doing their stage “score.” Suddenly, I saw my HB eating with a flatware that I could not determine. OMG, I was angry! I was angry at myself for being such a peasant. How did he get to that part? Where was I? Outside in, right? But he seemed to be using something from the middle of the setting. I glanced at the person beside me on my right, I glanced at the one to my left. My brain was not absorbing anything. So I looked at the waiter and he fixed me a look and raised his hand ever so slightly motioning to stage left, number 3. I smiled at him and proceeded to eat like this is an everyday occurrence for me. What is with these Europeans and their weird implements?

The wine was excellent, the food was delicious, and the small talk was fun. I had a buzz and feeling great. I excused myself to go the ladies' room. I thought it was weird that a man could openly come in and use the stall next to me and that I was just seated there when he passed by me. I have never been to a unisex bathroom was all I could think of. No big deal, when in Rome do what the Romans do!

We took a cab tour of Rome at night, when the lights were like stars shining on the city, abuzz with traffic sounds and smells. It was great to be alive and in the center of such an exciting city. I was realizing if I have not before that I was indeed committed, a married signora. My rings sparkled and winked like little stars on my finger, sapphire and diamonds, midnight strewn with stars. Midnight and high noon - as dramatic as Miss Saigon.

That night I told HB that I really loved the dinner albeit stressful it was for me. I mentioned that I could not understand why a classy place would have a unisex bathroom. I proceeded to tell him the men who would come in while I was in it. He looked at me, and said something calmly. And that is how so I found out that all through my visit, I had been using the men’s room. Fault me not. I thought the doors had a picture of spomeone with a skirt (tails) and a ruffled blouse. And I had a buzz going in, so pardon the signora por favore.

I also made a case for similar situations, and there would be more in the months and years that followed, that we would make eye contact before he lifts any of those confusing tableware to prevent his “fair lady” from committing a faux pas.

A private car took us to the Leonardo da Vinci airport. When we arrived in Washington, a car was supposedly waiting for us to get home. HB told me to wait for it. It would have our name on it. A big black car passed by, with our last name on the window. I waved. It went past me. It came around again, I waved. It did not stop. So when HB asked me if our car came by, I was frustrated. “It did! I waved and the driver saw me but he did not stop. I mean, come on, do I look like a Russell?” Indeed.

Post Script: Years later, HB took me to an Italian Restaurant in Baltimore, Maryland. I used the bathroom. When I came out, a group of men on a table smiled at me and asked, “How was it?” Startled, I was wondering what they meant. One of them pointed to the bathroom door, “Did you like the men’s room?” I quipped, “Ugh, I was wondering why it was awful in there!” They raised their glasses to offer a toast to the lady who survived the men’s room.

I no longer wave for cars. I stand and wait to be asked if I were Mrs...I act like I am entitled to it. I got used to it.