Arriva a Roma

I try to read and sleep on the train from Venice. First there is the man across the aisle. He has his music turned up to full volume and he only turns it off to answer his cell phone with a dignified “Pronto.” There is a man behind him. I can’t see his face, but he is on his cell phone nearly the entire time. I can’t understand him, but apparently he is swearing a lot, because the man across from him, the one in the orange and blue tank top who reminded me of Nicolo, gets the inspector to come talk to him, as there are children sitting nearby. The family of four is sitting in the quartet of seats in front of me. Their voices rise and fall unpredictably in my ears.

We slide into Termini. It takes longer than I expect. It’s a flurry as I grab my backpack, my suitcase, and stumble off the train. It’s dark outside. I follow the other passengers towards the lit terminal. Nanna and I know we have to find the subway. Down the stairs to Metro Linnea B. It’s dirty. The cement walls seem harsh, there is graffiti everywhere. It’s not like the clean, efficient subway network in Tokyo. The ticket machine is at least ten years old. I almost get stuck in the turnstile with my luggage, grabbing at the air for my ticket, now validated by the machine. The neon sign at the platform (only one?!) says the train will come in two minutes. There are fewer people than I imagined. An American guy comes up to Nanna and asks her in broken Italian if this is the train for Laurentina. She says yes in English as the train pulls up. The train itself is covered in graffiti, and the inside is dingy with a yellow glow.

We get off at the next stop; the station is empty. I see policemen and wonder if they, like their Japanese counterparts, give directions to lost tourists. We don’t stop to see, pulling our bags behind us up the stairs. I am glad I didn’t pack any more. Nanna takes charge when we get up to the street. I see angled intersections, cars parked haphazardly. We cross the street, passing a restaurant where people feast on dishes that tantalize my empty stomach. We have to find our hostel. We walk down to the end of the block, consult once more with the map, and then retrace our steps, convinced we took the wrong turn out of the station. Once more, we pass by the restaurant with the people chatting and eating, glasses clink. On the other side of the street, back near the exit of the subway station, we realize we had been in the right place. Or had been heading in the right direction. We dart through traffic again. Stare and in return are stared at by the people in the restaurant who by now are probably wondering where we are going. Down more steps. I can’t take in everything around me quite yet. I see a lot of stone, and houses with balconies sticking out, protrusions on faces.

We are going to #107. We check. We are at #65. Up a sloping cobblestone road. It’s almost like an alley, it is so narrow. It is dark. I wonder if we are even in the right place. The suitcases rattle loudly up the street. It doesn’t look like a place for a hostel. A few more steps, I tell myself once we reach #100. There it is. A plain brown building. It fits in with the ones on either side of it. And there is a small handwritten sign by the door. Italy Inn #83. I look back down the street with disdain, but having no choice, turn my suitcase around and let it rattle behind me, this time down the incline. As we pause before #83, ready to knock, a woman appears a little ways up the sidewalk. She is the proprietor of this tiny, two-room guesthouse, which appears to be located in the basement of her house. It is coincidence, more than irony, I suppose, that she is Japanese. My year in Japan continues to follow me, even in Rome.