13 Little Blue Envelopes(29)
“I feel like you just got here,” he replied, “like we didn’t even get a chance to talk.”
“I guess we didn’t.”
“No.”
They began nodding at each other again, and then Richard
swooped forward and gave her a hug.
“If you need anything—anything—don’t hesitate to call. You know where to find me.”
“I know,” she said.
There was nothing else to say, so Ginny carefully backed into the crowd. Richard waited there until she turned and headed off to her gate and was still there watching when she checked with a glance back as she entered security.
For some reason, the sight made her very sad, so she turned around sharply and kept her back turned until she was sure that he was out of sight.
When BudgetAir said the plane would land in Rome, they
weren’t being literal. What they meant to say was, “The plane will land in Italy; that much we will guarantee. The rest is up to you.” Ginny found herself in a small airport that clearly wasn’t Rome’s main hub. There were a few small airlines represented, 128
and most of the passengers getting off had “where the hell am I?” looks on their faces as they wandered the terminal.
She followed a trail of lost people headed out the door into the balmy evening. They stood on the sidewalk, heads swiveling back and forth. Finally, a flat-fronted, very European-looking bus pulled up with a sign that said ROMA TERMINI, and everyone got on. The driver said something to her in Italian, and when she didn’t respond, he held up ten fingers. She gave him ten euros. This proved to be a good guess, and he gave her a ticket and let her pass.
Ginny had no idea a big square bus could go so fast. They rocketed along a highway and several smaller, curving roads. It was very dark, with occasional houses and gas stations. They were cresting a hill now, and below them Ginny could see a warm bright glow hanging in the air. They had to be coming into the city.
As they entered Rome, the bus was moving quickly enough
to make everything a wondrous streak. The buildings were
colorful, lit by multicolored lights. There were cobbled streets and hundreds of cafés. She caught a glimpse of a magnificent, massive fountain that hardly seemed like it could be real—it was built into the front of a palatial building and was composed of enormous sculptures of godlike human figures. Then there was a building right out of her history textbook chapter on ancient Rome—tall pillars, domed roof. It could have had people in togas standing on its steps. She started to feel a bubbling excitement. London had been amazing, but this was something totally different. This was travel. This was foreign and old and cultural.
Another sharp turn took them down a massive boulevard,
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and the buildings became more practical and industrial. They came to an abrupt stop in front of a massive glass-and-metal box of a building. The driver opened the door and sat back and said nothing. People peeled themselves from their seats and pulled their luggage off the rack. Ginny suited up with the pack and lumbered out.
She managed to wave down a taxi (at least she thought that was what it was, and it stopped) and passed the letter forward, showing the driver the address. A few minutes later, after cheating death by speeding down roads just barely wide enough to fit the car, they pulled up in front of a small green house.
Three cats groomed each other on the front step, oblivious to the squealing machine that had just arrived in front of them.
The woman who opened the door looked about fifty years
old. She had short black hair, streaked elegantly with gray. She was carefully but not overly made up, and she was dressed in an attractive blouse and skirt. She wore heels. She ushered Ginny inside. This had to be Ortensia.
“Hello,” Ginny said.
“Hello,” the woman replied.
She had a nervous look in her eye that said: “That is all the English I know. Go no further because all I will do is stare at you.”
The backpack, though, could be universally understood. The woman pulled out a small preprinted card that said 20 EUROS
PER NIGHT in English as well as some other languages, and Ginny nodded and passed over the money.
Ortensia led her to a tiny room two flights up. It looked like it was originally a crawl space, since there was just enough headroom for her to stand and just about enough room for the 130
cot-bed, a small dresser, and her backpack. A realtor would have described it as “charming.” It was kind of charming, actually.
It had been painted a happy mint green (not a sad, cinder-block–gym-wall mint green). Plants filled every available space.
It would have been very nice in the winter, but now it was the holding tank for all the rising heat. Ortensia pushed open the window, and a lazy breeze came in, circulated once, and went home.
Ortensia said a few words in Italian that Ginny was pretty sure meant good night, then descended the narrow spiral stairs that led to the room. Ginny sat on her neatly made bed. It was quiet in her little room. It made her heart pound. She suddenly felt very, very alone. She told herself to stop thinking about it, changed for bed, and lay awake, listening to the Roman traffic out on the street.
131
Virginia and the Virgins
Every once in a while, Ginny remembered that along with being charming and whimsical, Aunt Peg could sometimes be a little flaky. She was the kind of person who absentmindedly stirred her coffee with her pinkie and was surprised when she burned herself or left the car in neutral instead of park and laughed when it was occasionally in a different place than where she had left it. Those things had always been funny before. But now, with the massive, ancient city of Rome sprawled out around her and absolutely no guide, Ginny had to wonder how good (or funny) the “no map” rule really was. Her sense of direction wasn’t going to help her much here—there was just too much Rome and no point of reference to work from. It was all crumbling walls and huge billboards and wide squares and statues.