Once Upon a Time in Rome

In my spring 1979 semester at university, I took an art history course on "Roman Art and Archeology" that was a revelation to me. I was fascinated and intrigued by the subject and enjoyed talking about everything I was learning.

Roman art and history made for safe dinner table conversation when I had to visit my parents. I had moved out of their home soon after my 19th birthday, despite my father's desperate pleas to stay and "continue to be a buffer" between him and my mother. They had a long history of emotional ups-and-downs and often engaged in horrific, raging, dirty fights that could last for two to three days before they lapsed into hostile silence. Peace in their house only meant things were simply simmering under the surface and could boil over at any moment, scalding anyone in proximity. I had escaped from their self-made hell as soon as I could.

Their fights were all about power and control, although they had no clue that their continual rows over infidelity, money and decision-making were about each of them trying to assert and maintain dominance over the other.

Any expenditure of money, no matter whether large or small, was cause for an ugly fight filled with name-calling. They rarely agreed on anything. They were both very cheap, but my mother was the worst. She seemed to live to deny my father, and us her kids, anything we seemed to desire.

Their loggerheads over spending money was probably what was behind our family driving the same ancient cars for about twenty years. Pretty much my whole life growing up we had the same cars - a 1958 Hillman and a 1962 Valiant. The Hillman was a total rust bucket - you could actually see the road going by through the rust holes in the floor under your feet! They had finally upgraded to a VW Rabbit, but I knew my father harboured aspirations beyond an economy car. My mother maintained her firm stance that "cars are for going from A to B and not for ego trips."

Divorce was threatened often on both sides but, when you came right down to it, they stayed together because neither of them wanted to give the other half of the money, home and household possessions they had accumulated. They stayed together, choosing emotional misery and keeping their assets intact over the alternative.

I was an unwitting pawn in one of their marital games in the spring of 1979. I had come over for a visit after one of my classes and I had my art history books with me. My mother expressed some interest; coming from a family of antique auctioneers, she fancied herself something of a connoissuer of fine arts and antiquities. I started showing her the many photographs in my textbooks and explaining the incredible stories behind the sculptures, frescoes, friezes and architecture of Rome and ancient Italy.

My mother got very animated and, with a glint in her eye, looked over at my father (who was sheltering behind his newspaper as usual) announced out of the blue "I'm taking Lisa to Italy." Say w-h-a-a-a-a-t?? We're going w-h-e-r-e?

My mother's mind was made up and before I knew it, dates were selected and travel was booked for a three week sojourn in Rome in May 1979. My father was less than impressed, but didn't say much.

This was really out of character for my mom, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. My mother was not a generous person, in fact, she was a total skinflint. But, at age 20, I didn't think about her motivations - all I knew was that I was going to Rome and would soon be seeing everything from my textbooks in three dimensions!

We arrived in Rome exhausted and jetlagged after 24 hours of travel. A friend of a friend of mom's had booked us accommodation in a pensione in the Trastevere section of the city. It was awful - gloomy, dank and smelly but we collapsed and slept for 12 hours before going out to explore.

I completely fell in love with Rome. I quickly became convinced I had been an ancient Roman in a past life because I didn't even need a map to find my way around the city. I had this eerie sixth sense and actually knew which monuments and historic artifacts would be around every corner. I was also a fantastic tour guide (back then) as I knew the history and interpreted the meaning of every significant site we visited - no guidebooks required.

None of this made any difference to my mother, who vehemently decided she HATED Rome and Italy with an all-consuming passion, and that we were going home after just two days in the country! After picking my jaw up off the floor, I argued as hard as I could for logic and rationality - to no avail. Her mind was made up and we were leaving first thing the next morning.

We were up at dawn, packed and in a taxi to the airport by day three of our sojourn. I was confused, miserable and not speaking to my mother. Disembarking from the taxi, I encountered a gorgeous Italian man getting out of his sporty silver Citroen. He flashed me a brilliant smile and said hello in English. I told him I really liked his car. He looked at the "Departures" sign then back at me and said "If you stay, perhaps I will let you drive it" in a way that gave me wonderful goosebumps and put an even darker stormcloud on my mother's face. She grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the terminal entrance. I looked back at Senor Citroen who gave me a wistful smile and shrugged his beautifully clad shoulders. My mother hissed "He's not interested in you, don't get any ideas!"

I parked myself in a chair in the general lounge area while my mother frantically did the rounds of all the airline offices at the airport trying to book us seats on a flight back to Canada. But it was a Sunday and they were all closed. After a couple of hours of fruitless efforts knocking on doors and trying to phone the airlines, it became clear to my mother that we weren't leaving today. Beyond that, something shifted in her outlook and her demeanor somewhat softened. She was willing to give Rome another chance, but not at the Trastevere pensione. We'd spend the day looking for more central accommodation in a "better" part of the city. Fine by me!

Back into a taxi (alas, Senor Citroen was long gone) and off to the heart of Rome. We found a modest, but lovely, little hotel just a block away from the Spanish Steps on the Via Condotti. I gave thanks to the panolpy of Roman gods for saving my trip. Those thanks were offered a bit too soon.

The day-shift front desk clerk at our new hotel was a tall, dark and handsome Italian fellow, a few years younger than my 46 year old mother. She started talking a lot about him and nicknamed him "Hadrian" after one of the Roman emperors. Hadrian had lived in Canada for a bit and spoken English well enough to start flirting with my mom. I thought it was creepy, but harmless. Then he asked her out on a date and she said yes!

At the time, the English newspapers in Rome were full of stories trumpeting the dangers lurking for foreign girls travelling in the area. Apparently there had been some abductions of American girls who were taken out to the countryside, raped, beaten and left in the middle of nowhere. My mother became convinced this would happen to me if I was out of her sight or left unattended. Her dilemma was how to go out on a dates with Hadrian and still ensure my safety (imprisonment!) while she wasn't around.

For the better part of two weeks, after she started running around with Hadrian, my life entailed touring around the city with her during the day, but wrapping up our outings by 5:30 when Hadrian got off shift. This meant eating dinner at 4:30 pm - no small feat in a culinary and nightlife capital where dining starts at 9:00 or 10:00 pm! But I was stuck daily with the equivalent of the "seniors' early bird special" so that my mom could have her assignations.

It was a surreal experience watching my mother get ready for dates with another man. She giggled and primped and asked my opinion on various outfits. I morosely lay on my bed with my only book and engaged with her as little as possible. She didn't notice. Because of the completely overblown risk of abduction and rape, I was expressly forbidden to leave the hotel room and, as there was no TV, all I could do was read, or look out the window, and go to sleep early. I've probably never been better rested on a vacation. I think I complied with her ridiculous edict because she had succeeded in spooking me a bit with the rape stories.

My mother would creep in very late (like 2:00 and 3:00 a.m.) and I would pretend to be asleep. I knew she must be sleeping with Hadrian and I wondered how she could justify such actions, especially with me as a witness to her inappropriate escapades. I was so happy I did not live at home any more. My father was no angel in their marriage, but I felt pretty sorry for him at the time.

The holiday finally ended and I spent over 18 hours travelling home with my mother weeping and clutching a cassette tape of some music Hadrian had recorded for her. Oh my god, a "mix tape" from her Italian lover! Unbelievable. I smirked - how was she going to listen to it? My parents didn't own a cassette player; their old hi-fi just had reel-to-reel tape capability. And neither of their cars had a cassette tape deck. That tape was going to remain a mystery.

I thought she was really out of her mind when she started wondering aloud to me if she could convince my father to help her sponsor Hadrian to emigrate to Canada! It didn't seem like she was even going to attempt to hide her shenanigans. I could not imagine how my father was going to react to the tear-stained, love-lorn version of his wife that would be stepping off the plane.

We picked up our baggage and reunited with my dad. Everything seemed under control. He walked us out to the parking lot and my mother asked "Where's the car?", looking around for the robin's egg blue VW Rabbit. My father put our bags down next to a brand new, smokey grey Audi 5000S that he had obviously bought during our absence, when my mother could not stop him. Automobile infidelity met romantic infidelity - if this had been a chess game, it would have been "check"! A stalemate (pun intended).

I could tell my mother wanted to sputter and unleash on him about this unauthorized, enormous expenditure but, as self-rigtheous as she could be, even she knew she was on thin ice, especially with me right there.

We got into my dad's beautiful new wheels and my mom looked around taking it all in. Then her face lit up. She dug in her bag, extracted her Italian mix-tape and plugged it in to the Audi's stereo system with smug aplomb - her version of "checkmate".

Todo bien. (It's all good.)