I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
It was noon on a hot summer day the first time we met. The flat Roman landscape marched past as I looked out the window of the coach. I was swimming in shallow thoughts of wine and vine, when the young woman, smiling brightly in that singularly American way, sat down in the empty seat next to me.
“Hello! Can I sit here?”
“Of course.”
“You look like a pretty cool person, so I’ve decided to plop myself next to you.”
I raised an eyebrow. She grinned. I was a little surprised by her unsolicited praise, but found it harmless, and filed it under information that might one day prove suspicious. We didn’t talk much on that journey into the heart of the city of Rome.
The Yogini is two years or so younger than me. Her parentage of Western Europe and the Far East had merged in such a way as to produce an offspring that seemed to belong on the beaches of South America. She was long, lean and tanned, with a coltish walk that made me think of Humbert Humbert. Her hair was a silky black and very nearly replicated the Oriental predisposition for straightness, except for a surprising bounce at the ends of the strands. When she laughed all her teeth would show, a feat that would have condemned her to horsiness, save only for the grace of her plump, plum lips.
We were in Rome as part of a summer abroad program. Our apartments were a narrow path away from the walls of the Vatican. Hers was at the top of the hill, mine at the bottom, and we would meet in the warm evenings on the steps to delight in melting gelato.
Our classes started midway through the day, so sometimes, we would head to the early morning market two streets away. She was a strict vegetarian, and would point and clap at every pretty little tomato. She was hopelessly lost in the linguistic loops of the Italian language. She was adept at French though, so it puzzled me as to why it was so hard for her to pick up the rolled Rs and the sing-along rhythm of the Romantic tongue. She would link her arm through mine and say, “Come, Ida, I need you to talk for me!”
At night, when we searched the city for ruins hidden in plain view, the echo of our footfalls would bounce between the ancient walls of Roman houses. We danced on the paved streets, she so obviously American with her loud laugh, and me, I don’t know what they thought I was.
I didn’t spend as much time with her as I did with Unsepet, but they were roommates, so I would see Yogini from time to time. I recognized in her a semblance of hero worship for me, thanks to my single-sex boarding school experience, and I couldn’t figure out why. I was amused, bemused, flattered and irritated. In Sorrento we shared a room, and sat on the window ledge, the sea breeze mussing our hair.
I thought the Yogini funny, with an abrasive sense of humor, and a little insecure of herself even when we all could see she was possibly the brightest, the prettiest and the luckiest amongst us.
When I left for Madrid she hugged me, her eyes shining slightly, and made me promise to keep in touch. When I left L.A. she begged me to tell her why and I couldn’t. She still asks me, and has countless times tried in her sweet way to get me to go back.
