A Bowl of Zuppa

 “No, them first!” The taxi-driver said, with what appeared unnecessary force. Something about this didn’t feel right—my hotel was a four minute ride from the Termini. But because my friends smiled with such friendly trust in humanity, and because I was a stranger in town, I didn’t dare protest, and went along with the consensus.

The driver dropped off my friends outside their hotel. Then slamming the door, he got behind the steering wheel, and drove me to a nice, narrow street and told me to get off. It was a one-way street and he couldn’t drop me off to the door of the Hotel Des Artistes, he said. I looked left and right, and saw residences, but no hotels. I suspected foul play. I demanded he drive around to the hotel’s entrance. He scowled, and did a screaming U-turn into the alley. The alley, it turned out, was filled with posh residences, but there was no hostel in sight. He accused me of giving the wrong address. I demanded he drop me off to the hotel. The driver got in, slammed the door violently, and started to drive.

The driver drove, or rather speeded, down roads for about twenty minutes. The cab speeded through what felt like a highway. The driver gripped the steering wheel tightly. We appeared to be going a hundred miles an hour. That’s when I knew something was wrong. The hotel directions I had downloaded from the Internet had told me I would get to my hotel in four minutes. I had now been in the taxi for almost half an hour. “Stop!” I said. Or rather, I threatened. I can be threatening when I want, and even the most carnivorous of Roman taxi-drivers doesn’t like to be caught in a taxi with a screaming female. Finally, he stopped.

The driver opened his door, and stormed out. He was screaming and swearing in Italian. The road was deserted, except for two women who stood by their broken down car. I shoved 20 euros into his hand, started to drag my suitcases towards a building. The driver followed me, and grabbed the suitcases from me. “Thirty-six euros! Thirty-six euros!” he screamed. He shook his fists into my face—I sensed imminent physical violence. He was obviously in the midst of some intense hate orgy. His face was twisted with ugly rage.

 “Please!” I begged the women by the road. “He’s supposed to take me to the hotel. The Hotel Des Artistes!” The younger of the two women, with thick black mascara, and red lipstick, an almost cartoonish figure of housewifely femininity, shakes her head: “No English. No English.”

 They wanted no part in this scene, except to enjoy it vicariously. It was obvious these women would enjoy the spectacle, and whatever gory end it might bring, but they would not interfere.

The women’s lack of interest in the proceedings strengthened the man’s resolve. He got even more violent. He started to drag my suitcase towards his taxi. “I call the police!” he screamed. “Now thirty-six euros!”

I felt like I was caught in some movie of the Second World War—one where fascism still reigned supreme. This was not the Italy that Americans love, the “Eat, Love, Pray” variety of Italy. This was Italy as the Jews had known it between 1930s and 1940s. This was Italy as the Ethiopians had known it. This was Italy that Mussolini had created and reigned in. This was Julius Ceaser’s Italy, and it certainly did not drip with olive oil and homebaked bread. It stank of hatred. I looked around in desperation. The highway looked deserted. I was caught in twilight in the middle of Rome with a fascist driver and two fascist sympathizers. It was clear to me I would become a statistic of violence unless I took action.

That’s when I noticed the three men walking down. One of them was dark-skinned—he looked Arab, or African. “Please, I am supposed to go to this hotel! Tell me where it is!” I say, pointing to the map in my hand. It is amazing how you can’t really scream “Help!” like in the movies. In real life, everything is muted. A taxi-driver may be on the point of committing a violent crime, but all you can say is: can you please help me find my hotel?, praying that the people interceding will understand the language you speak.