I couldn't have chosen a better location for William to be overworked in. His schedule was grueling. He would be working long, long hours while I traipsed and ate my way across the country, mile after mile, town after town. There was simply no way around it. One of us had to bring home the prosciutto, and one of us had to eat it.
And we were staying in one of the most romantic, prominent hotels in the city: The Excelsior, on the Via Veneto. This spectacular inn had acted as base camp for the affairs of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. William and I had a lot of kissing to live up to.
I taxied into the city, checked out our hotel room and hit the bustling streets still lit brightly in Christmas illumination. I picked a restaurant, ordered a glass of red and a bowl of spaghetti carbonara, a Roman specialty. I studied my Lonely Planet book and shivered with the giddy knowledge that life simply couldn't get much better.
Six weeks in Italy. I would spend time in Rome and take many excursions away from the main hub. After dinner I asked the waitress for an order of tiramisu to take home for my true love. A small token of thanks for getting me here...Italy...La Dolce Vita.
As elegant as the Excelsior was, as highbrow and rich, I needed to make adjustments for our lifestyle. I asked the bellhop to have the refrigerator in our room emptied of all snacks and drinks.
Tutto? He raised his eyebrows.
Si. I nodded sadly as if William and I were on a strict no-nuts, no-wine diet.
The next morning I walked William to his Metro stop, where he hopped on a subway car on an hour-long trip to the film studio. He claimed the ride had a pleasantness because the subway was filled with beautiful Italian women. Ah well, the guy needed something and I could hardly begrudge his visual treats.
Those weren't the only treats William discovered in Rome. He had never been a coffee drinker but when introduced to the local cappuccinos he became a convert. Every day, as he arrived on the studio lot, he stopped at the coffee bar and for seventy-five cents (take that, Starbucks) picked up a creamy, dreamy espresso treat.
I found my own little caffeine bar on the street (take that, overpriced room service) and stood (cheaper to stand; they charge extra to sit at a table) reading a morning paper, sipping foam and nibbling on a cornetto pastry. Then it was off to the market, where I filled my backpack and two grocery bags with water, juice, wine, fruit, yogurt, nuts (take that, hotel fridge).
Inevitably I would realize I bought too much when I faced the steep Spanish Steps at the end of my shopping journey. William usually arrived home hungry by ten-thirty each night. Our hotel room was just a room, not a suite, and it had no microwave or stove. So I had to improvise.
The marble bathroom not only housed fluffy giant white towels but lovely linen cloths, which I laid across our king-sized bed for dinner service. Every night I spent in Rome involved a search for take-out food. William would come through the door to a glass of wine and pizza, or Chinese, or broiled chicken with salad and little balls of fresh made mozzarella. Sometimes I dished up poached salmon and green beans or room-temperature lasagna. Luckily, William's an easy-to-please diner.
It was on these location stays that our day-to-day patterns of dependency were set. At home, William takes care of all things technical: computers, televisions, phones. Getting internet access, fixing printers and programming remote controls all fall under his watch.
I take care of all things domestic: meals, guests, gifts, reservations, thank-you letters, shopping and scheduling medical appointments. Even while far away in some hotel room, we played the same roles. I regularly flipped out over a computer glitch and he calmly addressed the problem. He could happily survive on beef jerky and Pop Tarts were I not around to offer a vegetable or two.
No comments:
Post a Comment