16
Maika
The visit to Rome is off to a better start than expected.
And coming from me, that’s saying a lot.
Because a part of my brain always reserves an empty seat for disaster.
I’ve never been a pessimist, but unloading over a hundred people, coordinating buses, tight schedules, local guides, suffocating heat, and passengers who interpret “just five minutes” as “half an hour in a souvenir shop” always causes a stir.
But this time, the day seems to be giving us a break. The passengers get off the buses with their phones at the ready and their eyes wide open, like children in front of a storefront full of candy.
For the first few hours, we move like a well-rehearsed parade, while we report what’s happening in the team chat:
“Group three split up. First subgroup en route to St. Peter’s Square. Everything in order.”
I don’t know if Helen is reading my messages from the ship’s security office.
I picture her on board, standing tall in her uniform, checking every announcement, every hour of the itinerary, even keeping an eye on the deck clock.
Although I hate to admit it, knowing that she’s making sure everything goes smoothly puts my mind at ease.
“Maika, can we go take some pictures over here?” a passenger asks me, pointing to a beautiful view of the square.
“Of course,” I reply with my best crew smile, “but don’t block the way and don’t lose sight of the group. The ship won’t wait for anyone.”
I love seeing how people get excited about places they’ve dreamed of visiting for years.
I love accompanying them, solving those little problems that come up, and creating calm when the world is filled with noise.
I love feeling like I’m doing my job well, even though Helen insists on thinking that entertainment is only good for playing “Follow the Leader” in the pool.
Maybe that’s why today feels like a chance for redemption. Not against Helen, but against her doubts. Against my own guilt. Against the phrase that creeps inside me, pricking me endlessly. “We’re professionals, Helen. We always have been, and today I’m going to prove it to you.”
The first part of the itinerary goes by with the usual hiccups.
A passenger loses his ticket and later finds it inside the Rome guidebook.
A little girl cries because she wants to climb onto a fountain that, of course, is off-limits to touch.
Nothing serious. Nothing that can’t be solved with patience, a little water, and a smile that doesn’t give away how badly you’re dying to sit in the shade for five minutes.
By midafternoon, my subgroup is the last to visit the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.
The other passengers have already completed the tour and are gradually making their way back to the bus meeting point.
Our group has been slightly delayed by the security check at the entrance and by a family that needed to reorganize their bags, cameras, hats, bottles, and, it seems, their entire existence.
But we’re still on schedule. Maybe a little pressed for time. But on schedule, after all.
“Remember,” I announce to the twenty-six people with me as we gather, “we’ll take the stairs calmly, without cutting in front of anyone and following all the staff’s instructions. It’s narrow in some spots, so no rushing.”
Some fan themselves with the brochures. Others look up, impressed by the height, and by that feeling of entering a place where time seems to have stood still.
The walls of the Vatican hold a special silence. A solemnity that seeps under your skin even when you’re more focused on counting heads than on lifting your spirit.
The Giuseppe Momo staircase seems to twist upon itself with no end in sight. People move slowly, hands resting on the railing; their breaths grow deeper, and the occasional nervous laugh can be heard. I shift my gaze, looking back and forth, making sure no one falls too far behind.
Everything is going well. Until, of course, it stops going well.
There’s a sharp crack, a murmur, and a woman screams:
“Dad!”
I turn so quickly that I almost bump my shoulder into someone.
An older man—Don Ernesto—collapses partially against the side of the staircase.
He doesn’t fall completely because his daughter is holding him up as best she can, but his face is pale, his lips have lost their usual color, and his eyes are closed.
The world suddenly feels like it’s closing in on me.
“Make some room,” I say immediately as I move toward them. “Please, no one push. Everyone stay still on your step.”
Nico is a few steps below and looks at me with wide eyes, frightened.
“What do we do, Maika?” he asks.
“Find the Vatican security staff and tell them we need immediate medical assistance. Now!” I instruct him.
He nods and makes his way down with difficulty, clearing a path in clumsy but effective Italian. I crouch down next to Don Ernesto, while his daughter trembles visibly.
“He’s feeling dizzy,” she explains to me. “He said he couldn’t breathe and…”
“Don’t worry,” I reply with all the calm I can muster. “We’re going to help him. Does he have any medical conditions? Is he taking any medication?”
The woman begins to answer through her tears: high blood pressure, pills, the heat, travel fatigue…
I listen carefully, nod, and mentally repeat each detail to relay it later to the medical team.
I pull out my work phone and see I have no signal.
I move my arm to the side, as if I could negotiate with the thick Vatican stone walls.
Nothing. A blank symbol. Not a single bar.
“No, no, no… shit,” I whisper to myself.
I try to call Helen or send her a message. But I fail miserably.
This can’t be happening to me. Damn it. No, no, and no. Not when Helen expects exact timelines, updates, and confirmations before giving the order to depart from the port of Civitavecchia. Not when her trust in me hangs by a thread so thin I can almost hear it snapping.
The Vatican staff arrives after a few minutes that feel like an eternity.
Then the paramedics show up, and quickly, the medical evacuation protocol is activated.
They tell us that no one can go up or down, and the staircase is completely blocked off while they attend to Don Ernesto and organize his safe removal on a stretcher.
“How long will this take?” I ask one of the supervisors in English.
A police officer replies kindly, “As long as necessary.” I hate those two words. “As long as necessary” could mean ten minutes, or it could mean the beginning of my downfall and a report for abandoning my post.
I inform the group as calmly as possible:
“We’re going to stay here until the medical team finishes evacuating Mr. Ernesto. No one move from your spot unless told to do so. The passenger is in good hands, and as soon as they clear the way, we’ll all leave together.”
“But… will we miss the bus back to the port?” someone asks with understandable concern. If the ship sets sail, staying in Rome is a nightmare that could cost thousands of euros.
I smile, though I’m not quite sure how.
“We’re an official ship excursion; no one is going to be left behind, I guarantee it. We’ll figure this out. The important thing right now is that Mr. Ernesto gets the care he needs.”
The man’s daughter looks at me with tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, really. We’re ruining everyone’s excursion.”
I shake my head and give her arm a gentle pat.
“You have nothing to feel bad about,” I tell her, squeezing her hand afterward. “That’s why we’re here.”
And I mean it. Working on board isn’t just about sticking to schedules and smiling in the lounge when everything is going smoothly.
It’s also about supporting people when something goes wrong in the middle of a foreign country.
I know that. I believe it, and I stand by it with conviction.
But my phone still has no signal. And Helen doesn’t know anything. She must be thinking the worst of me.
The minutes turn into a dense, sticky mass.
Some passengers sit on the steps when they’re allowed to.
Others murmur among themselves. A woman prays under her breath.
Nico, who’s managed to get back by my side, helps me keep the group calm, handing out water when the staff authorizes it and making sure no one else suffers from heatstroke.
I check my phone screen every thirty seconds.
“Maika,” Nico says, coming closer, “this isn’t your fault. It was beyond your control.”
I look at him. Poor Nico. So young and so optimistic. He still doesn’t know how the bigwigs operate.
“When Helen rips my head off and sends me home at the next port, remind her of that,” I reply sarcastically.
“I’m sure she won’t,” he instinctively tries to reassure me.
“You don’t know Helen when things go off script.”
We’ve spent about half an hour stuck on the Vatican staircase and another forty-five minutes filling out the official incident report. Almost two hours imagining Helen staring at the terminal clock, clenching her jaw, and thinking exactly that I’ve proven once again that I’m irresponsible.
When we’re told that Don Ernesto is now stable and in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, the news gives me some breathing room.
But not enough, because as soon as we step outside, Rome hits us with all its noise, heat, and chaos.
St. Peter’s Square stretches out before us, immense, dazzling, teeming with tourists, tour guides, and flags.
My phone suddenly regains a signal and starts vibrating as if seeking revenge for this endless silence.
I have dozens of messages and missed calls. From Leo, from the Excursions desk, from the ship’s switchboard. And from Helen. Lots from Helen.
I swallow hard.
“Okay, team,” I announce to the group, swallowing my nerves. “Let’s head together to the bus meeting point. We have to stay together. Nico, bring up the rear and make sure no one gets left behind.”
“Got it,” he replies firmly.
We push through the crowd as fast as we can.
But Rome, when it decides to work against you, does so with true artistry.
Because ahead of us lies a blocked street, an impossible flow of tourists, and traffic lights that seem to stay red forever.
Every passing minute turns into a stumbling block that knocks me off balance and shatters all my optimism.
And the final blow comes when we reach the parking area—the lot is empty.
“Where are the buses?” a little girl asks behind me.
I look into the distance and make out the license plates of our coaches driving away down the main avenue.
For a second, my brain refuses to process the image.
But that’s exactly what’s happening. I check my phone and read that the drivers had to leave the loading zone due to restrictions imposed by the Rome police.
They can’t just sit there blocking St. Peter’s.
“Shit, damn it!” Okay, okay, I have to think.
We’re stuck in the middle of Rome. Twenty-four passengers, Nico, and me. Running out of time before the ship has to close the gangways in Civitavecchia without incidents, delays, or astronomical fines.
“Oh, my God. What do we do now?”
Panic spreads like wildfire among the passengers.
“It can’t be.”
“Is the ship going to set sail without us?”
“Who’s going to take us now?”
I raise both hands to get the group’s attention.
“Everyone, please listen,” I say, projecting my voice. “No one is going to miss the ship. The official tours are protected, and the ship knows we’re here. We’re going to stay together in the shade of those trees while I coordinate our return right now.”
In front of them, I stay calm, but inside, my stomach has just taken a nosedive from the top of the dome.
I take a few steps back without losing sight of them and dial Helen’s direct number. Each ring strips away another layer of my pride. When she answers, her voice is dry, tense, and sharp.
“Was it really that hard for you to stick to the port schedule, Maika? The captain is asking for the departure manifest.”
I close my eyes for a moment and let out a sigh, pressing the phone against my ear.
I could defend myself. I could yell at her that I didn’t cause a passenger to faint, that I don’t have superpowers to walk through stone walls, and that the Vatican’s emergency protocols take precedence over her damn sailing schedules.
I could tell her that I’ve spent the last two hours keeping twenty-four people’s nerves in check, trying not to lose my mind while I was thinking only of her.
But we don’t have time to wallow in our sorrows.
“An elderly man had a syncopal episode,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“They had to take him away in an ambulance, and there was no cell service inside the structure. This isn’t the time to assign blame, Helen.
Tell me you have a Plan B to get all these people back to the port before we get into trouble. ”
I can feel her breathing change through the earpiece, how she reorganizes the world in her square head, how she sets aside reproach and rigidity to make way for action. That’s Helen. Tough, unfair at times, unbearable almost always… but damn brilliant when chaos breaks out.
“I always have a Plan B, Maika,” she reminds me, and for a moment, my knees go weak. “That’s what happens when you trust nothing and no one. Listen to me carefully because this is what we’re going to do…”