Altra Roma (More Rome)

POLITICAL UPDATE HERE

All the news coverage of the Pope has made me think of Rome. And Rome invariably makes me think of Becky. Becky's father was a doctor, so she wasn't exactly poor like me. She was also the youngest of five children with a very large gap between her and the next youngest, so she was a little spoiled. She wasn't a raging brat, but she was just used to getting her own way and she was a terrible listener.

I said before that Becky's international goals could be achieved by the single act of getting spanked by an Italian. I wasn't kidding, and neither was she. Immediately, she set out to conquer Rome.

There was a coffee shop where the locals would hang out just down the street from the convent called Cafe Settemiano. After class, we'd go down there and study. Becky cast her eye immediately on Danilo, the handsome young man behind the counter. All things being equal in most civilized countries, Danilo, of course, was a flaming homosexual. Well-dressed and limp wristed, earring in the wrong ear (for straight people); even if you couldn't speak Italian, you could hear the lisp.

This type of sexual nuance was completely and utterly lost on Becky. She insisted that he was straight, that earrings didn't mean the same thing in Italy as in America, and that he was dying to get her on the back of his moped. There was absolutely no dissuading her from this. Her aggression surprised me a little. Back in NH, she was they type who if she liked a guy, would set up elaborate and largely unnecessary sting operations to find out if he was interested.

I watched in horrified fascination as Becky marched up to the counter, English/Italian dictionary in hand, to make a date with the gay coffee shop employee. I don't know what she said, but I saw him roll his eyes and shake his head "no." She came back to the table smiling. Fearing the rejection had caused her to lose her mind, I asked her what happened.

"Danilo said great and he would meet me at the bridge at 8:00."

"No he didn't. He rolled his eyes and said no."

"You don't speak Italian. You don't know."

Deciding it would be useless to tell her that I was exceptionally well-versed in Italian head gestures for "there is no way I'm having sex with you, you stupid fat American chick," I let it go. Some people just have to learn the hard way. Besides, why deny myself a chance to be amused?

It was the next day before I would find out what transpired. I was sitting in my usual corner of the cafe, when Becky came storming in, dictionary in hand, eyes ablaze. In a stunning turn of events, it was apparent that Danilo had stood her up. She rushed up to him and began yelling at him in incoherent Italian and nearly incoherent English. The one phrase she uttered that was understandable was, "IO PAZZO, IO PAZZO!"

I cringed in humiliation as I realized what she was saying and why. 'Pazzo' means crazy. She had looked up 'mad' in her dictionary and it had given her the translation for crazy.

When the tirade was over, and the coffee shop workers had picked themselves up off the floor after laughing their asses off at a completely bewildered Danilo, she stalked over to the table and sat down.

"So how's your boyfriend?"

I thought she was going to hit me.

"Shut the hell up. I think he's gay."