A Date With Rome (Part 1)

When my last relationship ended, I was not excited about jumping back into the dating pool. I was 43, my self-esteem was low and my 'fat' jeans were feeling much too snug. I had also moved to 'Toluca Woods', which is the name realtors created for the less tony area north of Riverside Dr., above posh Toluca Lake, hoping to entice potential buyers to what's commonly known as 'North Hollywood'. "Carolyn, did you know North Hollywood has the most registered sex offenders in southern California?" asked my friend Mark. Great. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear, when moving into a new house in a strange neighborhood.

It was fall 2008, we had just finished the movie, the holidays were approaching and I had at least a month off to decompress. I curled up on the sofa, turned on the TV and caught an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, who wrote the best-seller, "Eat, Pray, Love". I thought a book about healing from a failed relationship could be inspiring after an exhausting year.

I read the entire book in two days. The way Gilbert describes Rome and the people who inhabit the city was intoxicating. I impulsively logged onto the internet to find out how much a Roman holiday would cost me. A little adventure in an historic city with incredible art could kick start my personal life. For a mere $489 I could be wandering the cobblestone streets of Rome. However, since I work for myself and don't always know when the next job is coming, I contemplated whether I should save money and stay in my sex-offender-populated neighborhood, or fly to Italy?

Bleary-eyed from the long flight, I dropped my luggage off at my bed & breakfast, tucked away, off a side street. Then I found a little cafe on Piazza Venezia near San Marco, ordered a glass of wine and watched the people pass by. Rome was beautiful, vibrant and amazing. I met Paolo and Vicenzo there. Vicenzo was a bodyguard for one of the Superior Magistrates and was carrying a gun. He was very excited to discover I lived in L.A., which was the only city he had ever visited in the U.S. He spent a summer at UCLA learning how to speak English. "No one speak Italian in Los Angeles!" said Vincenzo with a very heavy accent, "They have no the patience with me when I practice the English."

Paolo drove the high judge's bullet-proof car and was the spitting image of Jean Reno. He said very little, as he inhaled deeply on an unfiltered cigarette. I spent about an hour with the two of them, discussing the best places to visit in Rome during my stay. The Colisseum was next on my list, so I thanked Vincenzo for unexpectedly picking up my lunch tab and headed toward the bus stop.

Paolo & Vicenzo quickly exchanged words, then Vincenzo said, "Wait here." The two of them disappeared around the corner. Moments later, an older model Fiat, with one-inch thick windows screeched to a halt in front of me. Paolo was behind the wheel and Vicenzo was riding shotgun. "Get in," he said, "we'll give you a ride to the Colisseum." "Vicenzo," I replied, "I am a female, traveling alone in a foreign country and you are asking me to get into a car with two men, who I just met." "I'll leave the windows down," he said. It took some manpower to roll down the thick, heavy windows, so I knew if I needed to get out, I probably could. "Not if the car was driving 80 m.p.h." my brother later pointed out.

The traffic was backed up for miles but it didn't matter. Paolo turned on the siren and drove fast down the wrong side of the street the entire way to the Colisseum. Opposing traffic quickly veered out of our way and I was delivered to the Colisseum in a matter of minutes. "Grazie mille," I said repeatedly as I exited the car. (Part II below)