Make Me Bad(83)

Even though I’d never heard of Vernazza and needed a magnifying glass to see it on the map, I didn’t spin the globe for a third time—I didn’t want to get on destiny’s bad side. Instead, I wrote down the name and rolled it over my tongue to get a feel for the pronunciation.

After a bit of research, I learned that Vernazza is one of five seaside villages that make up Cinque Terre. All five of the centuries-old villages are tucked into the rugged Ligurian coastline, and are only easily accessible by train—lovely, considering motion sickness was my fiercest enemy.

In an effort to break up the trip and spare my poor stomach, I’d flown into Rome first and planned a day of exploring the ancient city. After escaping the Colosseum, I walked along the cobblestone streets, turning the paper map in my hand and trying to maneuver around the crowds. I saw all the important sights that day. I stood in the center of the Pantheon under the massive oculus, boiling. It was noon and the sun was right overhead, blinding everyone in the room.

“Not incredibly practical to cut a hole in the roof if you ask me,” I deadpanned to the ten-year-old beside me.

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes, walking away with Architecture of the Italian Renaissance shoved underneath her arm. Very cultured, these kids today.

After that, I toured the Vatican and got in trouble for talking in the Sistine Chapel. They shuffled a thousand of us into the room at once, told us to zip it, and threatened to start chopping fingers if we tried to take photos. Still, an elderly Italian woman prodded my arm with her cane and pointed at her iPhone like she wanted me to help her take an illegal photo.

“Oh, I don’t think you’re allow—”

A baritone voice boomed overhead. “SILENCIO! SIIIILLLEEENNNCE.”

I’d jumped a mile in the air, assuming it was the voice of God himself.

My final stop of the day was the Trevi Fountain. I chucked a euro over the crowds, but my aim was crap, and it ended up striking a woman in the forehead as she stood for a photo-op in front of the fountain. I shrugged—my wish had been to make the crowds disappear, and as the woman hurried off angrily, I counted it as a win.

Confident that I’d consumed the best bits of Rome and also anxious to flee the area in case the woman with the coin-shaped bruise on her forehead came back looking for vengeance, I turned back for my hotel. The sun was setting and my feet were aching.

In the morning, I would head to Vernazza and see what fate had in store for me.





In true Georgie Archibald form, I slept right through my alarm the following morning. It BEEPED BEEPED BEEPED over and over again and my brain—still exhausted from traveling—had assumed it was some annoying Italian songbird outside my window. Eventually, my subconscious brain realized that birds don’t even sound remotely like alarm clocks, and I shot out of bed.

I looked at the time. “Arse! Bugger! SHITE!”

If I missed my first train of the day, I’d have a hell of a time making my connections. I tossed anything and everything into my suitcase, nearly taking half the hotel room with me. The train station was only a few minutes away, so I didn’t bother with a cab. I shot across streets without looking both ways, nearly collided with a few cars, and made it past security with ten minutes to spare before the train departed.

It was an 11:20 AM departure for Pisa, packed with families on holiday. I took a deep breath, telling myself, I made it. I stowed my luggage then wandered down the aisle, glancing at the numbers posted above each seat. I was assigned to 11A and when my eyes landed on my backward-facing seat, I groaned. It wouldn’t do; I had to face the direction the train was moving or I’d get sick.

I glanced around for an opening, but my late arrival had ensured that every last seat on the train was full except for mine.

“Sir,” I said, turning to the distinguished-looking man sitting in 11C. His seat was opposite mine, facing the right direction. It was a small move, but it would ensure I didn’t spew up the granola bar I’d stuffed down my throat on the way over from my hotel.

He tilted his head up, a bit annoyed to be pulled out of his crossword.

I offered him a massive, pleading smile. “Is there any way I could convince you to swap seats with me? I get motion sickness on trains and I—”

He shook his head before I’d even finished.

“This is my assigned seat.”

“Of course, and I’m assigned to 11A.”

I pointed between the two seats as if trying to convince him of how small the distance was. He’d just have to pop up, rotate that impressively large bottom of his, and plop back down across the gap. Easy peasy.

“Then 11A is where I suggest you sit.”

On that note, he held up his crossword to cover his face.

I moved on to my next target: the woman sitting in 11D, but unfortunately, she was snoozing against the window, a bit of drool already rolling down her chin. I could have forced her awake and asked her to swap seats, but it seemed like bad form.

I tried one last glance around the train, displaying the most desperately tragic face I could muster, but everyone turned away, avoided eye contact, or offered up a blatant shake of their head.

Fine.

I sat down in 11A, dropped my backpack between my feet, and yanked out the supplies I carried with me whenever I traveled: chewing gum, ginger candy, peppermints, and Dramamine. I began to fortify myself for my impending doom, but it was no use.