Chapter Six
By Saturday, my brain is brimming with ideas on how to make La Musa more popular with tourists.
I could reach out to my contact at Condé Nast and convince them to feature La Musa as one of the top travel destinations for next year, same with The New York Times.
My campaign used Los Angeles-based influencers to help get out the vote in my district and beyond; I could reach out to a handful of them, though I doubt La Musa has the budget to pay for branded content.
Maybe I could post about it to my own Instagram—no, that’s not what I’m here to do.
I don’t want people to know where I am. I want to maintain my anonymity.
That’s why I’m wearing a scarf around my head and giant sunglasses for my and Benito’s Roman holiday.
On the way to the train station, I stop in Caffè del Duomo for a cappuccino. Inside, I see Giac standing at the counter, ordering from Giuseppe. “Buongiorno, Giac,” I say, grinning probably too hard. He stares back at me, squinting his eyes. I take off my sunglasses. “It’s me, Izzy.”
He laughs. “Ah, yes. Izzy. I did not recognize you. How are you?”
It’s my turn to order, and Giuseppe stares at me. “Un cappuccino, per favore,” I say. I turn back to Giac. “I’m doing well. I’m actually headed to Rome.”
“No way!” Giac says. “I love Roma.” He breezily offers euros to Giuseppe to pay for both of our drinks without even acknowledging the gesture. “I studied archeology and classics at university. I used to spend hours at the Forum. I still go on digs in the summers.”
“That’s so cool,” I say. “I wish I had you as a tour guide.”
Giuseppe sets our matching cappuccinos in front of us. “Prego,” he says.
“Grazie, Giuseppe,” I say.
“You know,” Giac says, gesturing toward an outdoor table for us to sit at, “I was about to head back to Perugia, but I don’t have other plans today. I could come with you if you’d like.”
“Really?” I ask. My heart rate picks up. An entire day with Giac. I picture myself clutching on to him on the back of a Vespa as he veers through the crowded city streets, the edges of my scarf blowing effortlessly in the wind. “That would be amazing.”
Giac follows me to the train station where I’m set to meet Benito for the 9 a.m. train to Rome.
Lucia booked us rooms in the Centro Storico area, so I’ve packed a change of clothes and a few other essentials into a small duffel we’ll drop at the hotel before we head out to tour.
I give Giac the rundown on our itinerary and he excitedly scans it as we wait on the platform.
“Are you really wearing that?” I hear a voice ask. I turn and see Benito walking toward us. “You look like Audrey Hepburn.”
He’s carrying his own small duffel, dressed in a blue linen button-down and well-tailored khakis. “Since when has that ever been an insult?” I ask. Benito smirks but his face drops when he sees Giac standing next to me. “Oh,” I say. “Benito, this is Giac. Giac, Benito.”
“The mayor, yes,” Giac says, shaking Benito’s hand. “I’ve heard much about you.”
“Giac teaches at the school in town,” I say.
“Ah,” is all Benito mutters back. Polite.
“Giac offered to be our tour guide. He knows a lot about Roman history and architecture.” There’s a brag in my voice, and I make a mental note to play it cooler.
“Wonderful,” Benito says, though his tone sounds sarcastic. He turns to Giac. “Great to have you join us.”
Giac smiles back at him genuinely. “Looking forward to it.”
The train pulls into the station, and we find seats onboard. I sit on one side of a four-seat row while Giac and Benito face me on the opposite. Giac, perfectly content, looks out the window while Benito fidgets with his shirt cuffs.
“Izzy, what made you want to come to Umbria?” Giac asks. “La Musa doesn’t have many American tourists.”
I flit my eyes over at Benito. “So I’ve heard.” I repeat the same romantic speech about study abroad, about wanting a slower pace of life, needing somewhere safe and quiet to start over. Giac nods, accepting my answer, but Benito snorts. “What?” I ask.
Benito scans my face like he’s waiting for me to flinch. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“That’s the truth,” I say, giving him a pointed stare.
“Typical politician,” Benito says. “Reframing the truth to fit your narrative.”
My heart twists like I’ve just been stabbed. I glare at him again. Giac looks back and forth between the two of us. “You’re a politician?”
I continue glaring at Benito. This was not his story to tell. How dare he out me to Giac? “I assumed he knew because you two are suddenly such great friends,” Benito says.
Giac looks back and forth between the two of us, not really overly invested in the answer to the question, more curious about the sudden tension. “I. . . used to be a politician,” I say. “But I’m not anymore.” Benito lets out a half laugh. “What?” I snap, my tone curt.
“No, no, nothing.” Benito raises his hands. “Clearly you’ve changed.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Say it.”
“Say what?” Benito asks.
“Whatever it is you want to say, out with it.”
Benito adjusts in his seat. “Nothing. I would just advise against getting too attached to Izzy, Giac.”
I heave in a breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Benito turns to Giac. “Izzy here is under the impression she’s moved to La Musa indefinitely, but I’ve bet her that she won’t last more than three months.”
“Ah, I see,” Giac says. “You do not think an American could ever permanently make such a small hamlet their home?”
“I do not,” Benito says.
“Well, you’re wrong,” I scoff. “Giac, if you want to hang out four months from now, I am free,” I say, my eyes still fixed on Benito, willing them to burn lasers into his skull.
“Ok,” Giac says. If he feels awkward about the brewing tension, he doesn’t show it. “Great.”
When we get to Rome, I’m once again taken aback by the breathtaking splendor of the ancient city unfolding right in front of my 21st-century eyes.
The Colosseum sits in the middle of an intersection as casually as Staples Center nestles itself into the center of Downtown Los Angeles.
The domed top of the Vatican as commonplace as a post office.
Famous monuments on every corner like they are as everyday and regular as drugstores.
Giac leads us through the Roman Forum for our first stop, reveling in the details of what happened in what place and which famous emperor did what horrible thing in front of what is now a pile of rocks. He’s cute when he’s excited about a pile of rocks.
Somewhere between the Temple of Romulus and the Basilica of Maxentius, Benito pulls on my arm. The heat of his touch sends an electric buzz down my spine that catches me off guard. “Izzy, wait,” he says.
I turn to face him while Giac reads a placard. “What?” I look down at his hand, still on my arm, and he quickly moves it away.
He inhales sharply and shakes his head. “I feel badly about how our conversation went earlier.”
I scoff. I didn’t know he had the ability to feel anything other than high and mighty. “You mean where you outed my past to my new friend and told him I wouldn’t be staying?”
Benito nods. “Yes.”
I wait for him to apologize but no other words follow. “Ok, you feel bad that you were mean to me. That’s great. The mayor has empathy. I’ll be sure to note that in the next election.”
He leans back a little bit from the blow of my comment. “I don’t want animosity between us.”
“Why do you care how I feel about you?” I fire back.
“I don’t know,” he says quickly, like it’s a surprise to him too. Benito readjusts his stance so he’s standing stick straight. “We live in the same house,” he says. “It’d be nice if we got along.”
The air of condescension in his tone is enough for me to decide I’m done with this conversation. “Evict me,” I threaten, backing away. “You’re counting down the days until I leave anyway.”
I spend the rest of the tour modeling enthusiastic engagement in Giac’s archeology lesson. This type of column is native to Rome. The obelisk was actually stolen from the Egyptians. The world’s oldest shopping mall was right over here. Interesting. Excellent.
Giac knows elaborate details about the characters of the time, the politicians who stood in this very place thousands of years ago.
If the United States ever succumbs to a similar fate, will a cute, young guide of the future tell a group of tourists about me?
“Here is where Isabella Rhodes stood when she was sworn in as California’s youngest congresswoman.
” “And here is where she walked away from her dream forever, tail between her legs and head hung low, when she lost her first re-election.”
In all likelihood, I wouldn’t be worth bringing up at all.
How many ancient Romans were lost due to already overcrowded history books?
Maybe someone predicted the fall of Rome and tried to do something about it.
Why do we instead celebrate the ones who successfully silenced him?
Why do we praise the ones who contributed to its destruction?
Are we not among ruins when we could be standing in the middle of a still-thriving empire?
Giac has to leave after we tour the Colosseum, so Benito and I share a quiet dinner at a restaurant Lucia picked for us in the Spanish quarter. We eat quickly while I dream of checking into my room, turning on syndicated television, and falling asleep to an episode of Friends dubbed in Italian.
At the hotel, Benito chats with the receptionist in quick Italian. I listen in for key words but barely understand anything. When Benito’s tone grows harsh and his forehead creases, I know something is wrong. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Benito turns to me. “They’ve gotten the reservation wrong. There’s only one room available and the hotel is completely booked.”
I swallow hard. I’m so tired from walking all day, all I want is to be off my feet and unconscious. I take out my phone and open up my browser. “Maybe I can find another room nearby,” I say.