Page 5 of The Roman Holiday Rule

This happens to me a lot, women I don’t know starting up a conversation. It’s the worst possible way to connect with me.

After a beat of awkward silence, she says, “So, you didn’t say where you were headed after Frankfurt.”

I step around her. I have to save us from this train wreck of a conversation. “I need to grab a snack before the flight. Excuse me.”

I dodge bags and carry-ons and duck into a souvenir shop that’s ninety percent Red Sox merch and pick out a hat for my five-year-old cousin. I’m teaching him about baseball, but my uncle swearsItalian soccer is the only sport that exists. This hat has a three months’ survival rate in their house, tops. My uncle’s face when Danilo opens my gift will be priceless.

At the pocket-sized convenience store, I grab a bag of nacho chips. While I’m in line to pay, my phone rings. I glance at the number and shove the chips back on the shelf, darting out of the store. Someone’s working late on Thursday evening, but that’s promising for me. This is the call I’ve been waiting for. The one that will prove I made the right decision to stay in Italy six years ago when my world fell apart.

I answer on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mark, this is Paul Lanzi from the Italian Heritage Society. The board reviewed your proposal. We think your vision for the mansion renovation is intriguing. Before we commit to investing in this project, we’re wondering what happens to the building if the owners don’t accept your firm’s bid.”

“It depends on which bid the owners accept. I heard they’re considering a few hotel groups to do the renovation.” I grit my teeth. The area doesn’t need more hotels and tourists. The ancient, crumbling palazzo isn’t merely sitting on lucrative real estate. Itisthe precious commodity. Just because things are old doesn’t mean they’ve lost one iota of their value. That makes themmoreof a treasure, and nothing fuels me more than preserving history.

Except my own. We can pretend most ofthatnever happened.

“—all groups. Final boarding call.”

Did that announcement say 302 to Frankfurt? Final? I must have missed the other calls for my flight.

I spin and head for the gate, phone pressed to my ear. “I have to get on a plane, but after tomorrow I’ll be available for any questions you have.”

“We’ll be in touch very soon.”

I thank him again, and he hangs up.

Intriguing vision.I clap my hands together once, my go-to cheer usually reserved for home runs. A woman nearby screams, andseveral people startle and jerk around. Mea culpa, that sounded like a gunshot. In an airport. I hold up my open palms with an apologetic grimace.

I join the end of the line at the gate. They’ve already boarded my first-class group, but it doesn’t matter. Less time on the plane is a good thing.

A bright laugh flies over the various conversations around me, and I lift my head, straining to search the line ahead of me, because I recognize it.

Chatting with the parents of two little kids is Passport Girl. Getting on my plane.Lexington.I wonder if her name carries any special meaning. I like that it’s rare, historical, solid yet lyrical, and without a modern edge.

She made the grumpy employee at check-in smile.

I would have missed my flight for her. For a chance to sit and talk to someone who made it easy to be comfortable, for someone who lightens the world around her.

But then she hesitated. So I gave her an out.

That’s for the better. I adjust my messenger bag and wrench my focus to the gate area, calculating its square footage. Numbers are a thousand times safer than conversations.

Case in point: my little sister, Katie, at her engagement party, drilling me for the sixth time during my two-week trip about when I would start dating again. That’s an average of one inquisition every 2.3 days. People in love are thepushiest.

If Katie had made it to the airport in time to send me off and seen me talking to a sweet-smiled, quirky Bostonian knockout, that would have been worse. Katie would take that torch and run with it right up Mount Olympus.

Because in Katie’s opinion, anyone who would put up with my customized “humor” (she always uses air quotes) is a keeper.

Passport Girl didn’t just tolerate my pun—shelaughed.

I allow myself one minute of casual observation. You know that satisfying crunch when you step on a crispy leaf in autumn? Andstepping on it a second time does nothing? That’s what I’m shooting for here, a zero impact second sighting because the crackle is all used up.

She picks up a dropped fleece blanket and teddy bear, ties the corners around the bear’s neck, and flies it to the teary little girl. “See? He loves flying too. It’s fun.”

I’m still holding my phone. I lift it, ready to open my boarding pass, but my fingers click open the phone’s camera and in less time than a one-two count, I capture this moment of kindness—no faces, just her outstretched hand and the little girl’s chubby fingers grasping the flying bear from her.

The child hugs the bear and giggles up at Lexington. I don’t understand how she makes friends in seconds, especially with a little child. She even had me eating out of the palm of her hand, and that’s rare for me.