Again, But Better

10. Rome Ma-Ma
Our seats end up being scattered throughout the plane. Babe’s in the window seat directly behind
me. Sahra’s a couple of rows up. Pilot’s a few rows back, across the way in a middle seat. There’s a
drunk couple sitting next to me who keep trying to pull me into their conversation. I laugh feebly at
their jokes and then go back to reading 
Shadow Kiss
or staring out the window. Every so often, I sit
on my foot and twist around to check on everyone. Babe isn’t a constant reader, but she’s currently
working on 
I Am Number Four
because the movie’s coming out soon. I should give her a list of
book recommendations for when she finishes. Maybe I can convert her to constant reader-hood.
Pilot’s ordering a bloody mary because drinks are complimentary on this flight (as has been made
glaringly obvious by the couple in my row). I can’t quite see anything other than the tip of Sahra’s
head. She’s probably reading an intellectual book. I spotted something nonfiction sticking out of her
bag earlier.
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It takes us less than two hours to get to Rome. As we stride through the airport, I’m struck over and
over again with jolts of excitement as I read the signs around us. They’re in Italian, and I know what
they all mean! It’s probably annoying, but I can’t help reading them out loud every few seconds and
translating them.
“
Uscita!
That means exit!”
“
Cibo,
that’s food, guys!”
“
Farmacia,
that’s a pharmacy!”
It’s obnoxious, but since everyone’s equally excited, I’m tolerated without complaints. We pass
through customs in a daze of enthusiasm. They add a Rome stamp to my barely used passport. I
smile at it before stuffing it back into the purse inside my book bag.
On the way to the inn, our taxi drives right past the Colosseum. 
The Colosseum!
We just
casually pass it on the road. It’s all lit up from the inside with gold light. Not two minutes later, the
cab driver tells us we’ve arrived.
We file out onto a narrow cobblestone street. Old-fashioned buildings line both sides of the road.
We shuffle up to number 42—the address of our inn. The numbers are carved into a gray stone
mounted next to a giant arched wooden door—the kind of door you see on castles in movies.
We glance around at each other with hesitant expressions.
“This is it, right?” I ask Babe.
“This is it.” She reaches out toward a small, dark doorbell to the left, dwarfed by the size of the
door. It makes a buzzing noise, and after a few moments, the door opens to reveal a tiny Italian man.
The inside is quaint, cozy. The man introduces himself as Paolo, the innkeeper. He gives us a
map of Rome (which Pilot immediately takes from him) and a set of two keys (which Babe takes):
one for our room and one for the castle door outside. They’re big, decorative iron ones straight out
of a fairy tale.
The normal-sized door to our room clicks open as Babe twists the proper ancient key in the lock.
We take quick stock. There are two twin beds with bright red comforters and one queen. It’s
spacious and full of color. We’re all ravenous, so we drop our stuff. I fish my purse out of my bag
and leave everything else behind.

---

Outside I can see the Colosseum in the distance, glowing in a haze of yellow. That’s our
heading. The four of us waltz through tiny brick alleyways, around endless colorful Fiats. All the
architecture has an ancient feel to it, like these structures were built into the landscape of the city.
The area around the Colosseum is gloriously empty. We gaze at it from atop a hill inlaid with a
set of long, curving steps that lead down to the ground. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe it’s
been standing for thousands of years. We can’t go in till tomorrow when it’s actually open, but Babe
and I take out our cameras, and we all have a mini photoshoot outside the deserted piece of history.
We end up at a trattoria nearby that’s still abuzz with customers. Babe requests a jug of red wine
for the table.
“Italy is famous for its wine!” she explains. “Getting a jug for the table is a must.”
We all order copious amounts of Italian food—I get ravioli, and it’s exquisite. Sahra raises a
glass to Rome, and we clink ours against it. We chat for hours, making our way through the entire
jug. I can feel the alcohol as we mosey back to the room together, joking and laughing at
everything. My chest is hot and fuzzy as I slip into my bed at the inn.
I wake with a jolt, taking a few deep breaths before remembering where I am. My mouth feels dry.
My eyes zip to the tiny black digital clock on the night table. It’s only 7:30 a.m. I shuffle to the
bathroom and decide to start getting ready because we planned to get up at 8:00 a.m. My lips are
chapped, so I head back to my area of the floor and look for my purse, aka the keeper of the
Chapstick.
I don’t see it on the floor, so I kneel on the ground and start rummaging through my book bag.
My hand flails through clothes and toiletries without skimming over anything that even vaguely
resembles my cross-body. Fear sizzles up my chest.
No, no, no, no. My passport’s in that purse. My block phone’s in that purse. All my money’s in
that purse … I had it at the restaurant. I had it on the back of my chair. Did I leave it?
My three travel mates are still asleep. I snatch my book bag off the floor and run to the bathroom
to get changed. I have to get to the restaurant. I need to find my purse.