I stood up and walked over to the hotel room window, taking in the partial view of the office building next door as well as the busy city street below. Pressing my head against the cool glass, I wondered what this street was like some eighty years ago when an evil regime overtook this place. Did the people just go on about their business the same way they were doing now? Did they live in constant fear that they’d be bombed and their lives would be taken away in a flash or with the longstanding terror that they may be turned in to the Gestapo for something that didn’t sit well with one of their neighbors?
Life would always be a matter of getting through one day at a time. It’s funny how that adage only applied in the bad times, never the good. It’s apparent when we are struggling that we must see each day as a victory, but why not when we’re happy as well? Why can’t we take each of the joyous days and savor each and every moment in the same way? Instead of realizing it too late.
I watched the people down below riding their bikes in the bitter cold, while others walked to get to their destination. I wondered where they were from, where they were going. Was their life happy or were they just merely getting by fairly unscathed? We all wished to be loved, and if lucky enough to be given the opportunity we’d love back with all we had. Then when that love faded away either by force or slowly over time, we all hurt in the same way. It was how we chose to deal with that pain that differed.
The daylight was gradually fading away, morphing into early evening, but my body and mind were still on New York time and the sleep I had missed out on the night prior. I yearned for my warm bed that had become the only safety I had known over the past few months. Just thinking about it got me homesick. What was I trying to prove by coming here? Did I think I was paying homage to Evan by going on a vacation we had planned together? Did I think that maybe he was somewhere watching over me, smiling at my courage to come here without him? In my mind that’s what I had hoped, instead of the alternative that was more than likely reality—he was hating me.
I stood staring aimlessly for some time until the last bits of daylight had faded away and the only light down below were the headlights of the cars. The meet-and-greet dinner was less than an hour away. My stomach churned with just the mere thought of it. I wasn’t sure if finding the psychical strength to shower and make myself presentable or gathering the emotional fortitude to be social with my fellow travelers would be harder.
The warm water from the shower streaming over my body made me feel somewhat human again. I towel dried my hair, allowing it to air dry in loose waves while I did my best to conceal my imperfections with a little makeup. I didn’t want to overdo it. I only planned on slipping downstairs, grabbing a bite to eat, saying the required “hellos,” then sneaking back to my room and into my pajamas for an early night. I grabbed the first pair of jeans I could locate in my suitcase, pairing them with my navy blue cable knit sweater. I gave myself one last look in the mirror, not really caring one way or the other, and made my way out of the room.
When I stepped off the elevator, Nino was standing outside the door of a room I could only assume dinner would be taking place in. “Welcome!” he said. Funny how an Italian accent on a man seemed like it could charm the pants off any woman. He was old enough to be my father, maybe even grandfather for that matter, yet I still found it appealing. “Grab yourself a glass of wine if you’d like.” He pointed to the table just outside the room containing a tray of glasses filled with white and red wine.
I decided on a glass of white and headed into the room where my fellow travelers awaited. It wasn’t fancy like I had excepted, more like a conference room set up for a luncheon. Six large round tables covered with white linen tablecloths filled the area. I didn’t count, but I’d estimate that there were ten chairs around each table with almost half of them filled. I scanned the area, trying to find the best place to sit. Table one consisted of a group of five girls who looked to be around my age along with a couple who were a painful reminder of who was supposed to be on this trip with me. I walked right past that table and examined the next.
A middle-aged woman with a girl in her early twenties, who I assumed was her daughter. Three sets of couples who appeared to have traveled together in a group and who weren’t willing to let anyone else into their conversation, as they excluded the presumed mother and daughter from it. I decided I’d take a seat there. I’d blend in and have casual conversation with these two ladies. That was until I heard DeAndre calling my name and theatrically waving his hands in the air—just when I was hoping to keep it low-key. I flashed the middle-aged woman whose table I was approaching an apologetic smile and headed toward DeAndre.
“Girl, you clean up well!” he shouted, giving the two older couples at his table a slight chuckle. He stood up and planted a kiss on my cheek, then pulled my chair out
