Laura

I wondered if other immigrants felt the way I did: torn between two worlds. Choosing such a life was never my first choice. I loved my country to much to ever want to leave, but as it turned out, it was the only way to get away from a past I wanted to avoid.

As I wandered off the airplane lost in thought, a young man charged past knocking me against the smooth walls of Fiumicino Airport, a not-so-subtle reminder that I was back in Rome.

“Aaoo! Piano cretino!” I yelled at his fleeing back. I had a short fuse on the best of days, but after thirty-five hours of traveling, airline delays and apologies, I wasn’t just ready for a fight—I wanted a fight. There was no better way to get ready for Rome than a good old-fashioned litigata.

Unfortunately, the young man must have heard my eagerness to confront, because all he could say was a feeble “Mi scusi” as he disappeared into the crowd of people at the baggage claim area.

Too bad; I’d wanted to let off some steam. At least he didn’t say “sorry” like they did in Port Angeles. Four years of polite “sorries” was enough to make me want the chaos of Rome again.

Nonna’s voice came to mind. “Mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi.” Stick to your own people was the general gist of the phrase. It was a saying she often repeated when I was a little girl. I was too young to understand it at the time, but after living and dating abroad, those words seemed all to real.

After about fifteen minutes, my suitcase finally came tumbling down the carousel and in no time, I was heading for the exit. People surged around me like a broken dam of humanity. Dodging plumes of cigarette smoke, I made my way to the taxi area. It was always strange to be thrown back into the cauldron of Italian chaos as the world reeled around me.

Before I cold make it ten steps, however, a strong arm ripped the suitcase from my hand.

“Signorí,” a man said with a thick Roman accent. “This way. I have a taxi waiting.”

This man was an abusivo, a taxi driver without a license. Men like him swarmed tourists in the hopes of getting double fare. Thankfully, my suitcase was so heavy with new clothes that the abusivo nearly pulled his arm out of his shoulder.

I always brought Mamma clothes from the U.S., where brand names were cheaper than in Italy. My ex-boyfriend, Luke, told me my shopping habit was going to kill him one day. Luckily for me, it nearly killed the abusivo.

“No grazie!” I commanded in an even thicker Roman accent. Right away, he knew he had chosen the wrong woman as he dropped the handle and moved onto easier prey.

Outside, I arrived at the end of the taxi lineup behind a couple that drew my attention. His clothes screamed wealth, but his taste whispered elegance. It was nice to see a well-dressed man again. She, on the other hand, exuded a style reflecting her much younger age. With a skirt that was as short as her stilettos were long, she dressed with a class quite contrary to her companion. She spoke with a “twenty-something” exuberance that would have made eyes roll. Hoping I was never that annoying at her age, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“I want the other bag. The one with the gold trim,” she commanded to the much older man, who nodded apathetically.

“Si, amore. Si.”

I couldn’t tell if the woman was his daughter or his lover. His left hand had a faded wedding band. She was far more beautiful than he was handsome, even if she was overly apparent.

“Are you listening to me, amore?”

“Si. Si. You want the gold trim bag.”

Sensing that she had lost his interest, she reached over with a well-manicured hand, stroked the back of his neck and gave him a kiss that made me blush.

Definitely not his daughter.

After the kiss, Miss Shop-A-Lot continued her demands. “Then I want to go to Milan . . . soon.”

The whole scene made me think of my father and all the lovers he had cheated with behind Mamma’s back. They reminded me of another reason why my decision to return to Italy was so difficult: cheating.

I wished I was innocent of this affectious crime. As it turned out, my mister’s name was Giancarlo and he was the biggest reason stopping me from returning to Italy. I could have easily had him wrapped around my finger, if he didn’t have a ring wrapped around his. Miss Shop-a-lot glaringly reminded me of my past failure.

I wouldn’t fall into that trap again, even if it was the thing to do in Italy. After the pristine purity of the Pacific Northwest, I felt I was ready to resist the charms of the Roman glitterati, including Giancarlo.

I knew he would try to get me back. Mamma had reported his phone calls at home had become a weekly expectation. Such persistence was the reason I gave into him in the first place. He had a way that made me think every idea he had was a good one, and at the same time, making me believe they were my own.

Even sleeping with him.

Being a strong woman, I couldn’t understand how I had been caught with my guard down, and how he had seduced me. In the end, the only way to get over him was cold turkey. Pure denial. I had to forget my feelings otherwise they were going to eat me alive. He was married and that meant I would have always been the “other woman.”

Now, after living long enough in the land of Thanksgiving, I had learned that cold turkey was best left in America. It was time to woman-up and face him again.

When he tried to seduce me, I would just ignore him. Plain and simple. It shouldn’t be difficult after the conscious-clearing tranquility of Port Angeles. He wouldn’t stand a chance against me now. No way. Not a shopaholics chance in Nordstrom on Black Friday.

He wasn’t that good-looking. I didn’t need to run my fingers through his dark full hair anymore, even though it had the perfect amount of wave without being curly. Why would I? He wasn’t ever going to leave his wife. I didn’t want another woman’s man, even though he made me feel like no man had before. He could keep his taught, tanned skin and sophisticated ruggedness to himself.

Never mind his beautiful chest that suited an off-the-rack Zegna suit perfectly. For some reason it framed his body flawlessly, accentuating his broad shoulders. They weren’t too wide, like a bodybuilders. That would have been overkill. They were just wide enough to emphasize his long straight back that lead to his narrow waist and his perfectly tight…

“Signora,” the man behind me motioned to a taxi that had just pulled up. Shaking myself back to reality, I silently scolded myself as the driver loaded my suitcase in the boot.

Why way I still thinking of Giancarlo? I had barely been back an hour, and my past was already haunting me. Beating myself up was something I had done since I had left Italy, but before self-criticism could gain momentum, my phone rang.

“Mamy,” I answered. “Yes. I’m home safe and sound. I’m on my way ho—”

Her voice shouted from the other end. Being short of hearing, she thought if she couldn’t hear her voice, no one else could.

 “Ma, I’ll be home in forty-five minutes. I just left Fiumicino. We can talk then . . .” She wasn’t listening. “Okay, Ma. Okay. I’ll see you soon. I’m hanging up now. Ciao, Ma. Ciao.”

As I settled in for the ride home, my thoughts wandered back to Giancarlo. I shook my head.

Oh yeah. 

Returning to Italy was going to be a piece of cake. A piece of you’ve-still-got-a-thing-for-Giancarlo-cake.

Merda.