Gypsies, Hurricanes, and the Pain of Loss: Confronting Chaos in Rome (Part 1)

We have a 3.5-hour van ride to Rome before flying back home after our Italian art retreat.

Dimitra, Johanna (the nanny), and Jake are sitting in the front. John, Zion, and I are sitting in the second row, and the suitcases fill the rest of the van. I, unfortunately, am sitting in the middle next to Zion, who needs to hold and suck on his Bamba (blanket) in order not to cry the whole time.

This is normally a great opportunity for me to enjoy being near my grandson, but this time, his Bamba smells like sickening sour milk and smelly feet. I have to wrap my scarf around my face to avoid throwing up while we twist through the winding hills of Italy toward Rome. I get a whiff of the foul blanket and am utterly nauseated.

"Dimitra, how can Zion stand this disgusting smell?!"

"I know! I think he loves it. He smells it like he is in ecstasy!" She's amazed, too.

"We have to do something! We can't let him be on the plane with that thing. Why does it smell so bad?" I'm imagining the entire plane with their faces three inches into their barf bags.

"I forgot the laundry in the machine the other day, so all the laundry smells really bad. Let's go to the mall by the Rome airport and get a new blanket. I want a fresh outfit for the plane, too," Dimitra says.

I've saved one clean pair of leggings and a t-shirt for the ride home, but I wouldn't mind going to the mall to see what they have and how I can fit something else into my suitcase. We add the airport mall into navigation, and I take comfort in knowing that soon, I will be free from the torture inflicted by Bamba.

We pull into the mall parking lot and drive around for several minutes, looking for parking.

"I guess everyone goes to the mall on Sundays here!"

There were no spaces to be found. Finally, far away on the edge of the parking lot, we find a space. I get out and see John kicking the ground at the broken glass below his feet.

"Yikes, there is a lot of broken glass!" I say.

"I don't like it. We should go. Looks like a lot of car theft," John says.

We all start talking about it and notice tons of nice cars parked in the area and signs saying there are video cameras. We think maybe the crime happens at night but not in broad daylight. We reason that our van is a rental and no one would want to steal it.

We are very motivated to get a new blanket for Zion so we don't have to smell the old one the whole way home. Jake makes a definitive statement by taking old, stinky Bamba and throwing it in the garbage, finishing with a dramatic flick of his hand, declaring Bamba has gone to his grave.

We aren't in the mall even ten minutes, and John says, "Guys! I have a really bad feeling. Something is wrong. I'm going back to the van, and I'll wait for you."

"John, don't be silly. Everything is fine. Let's ask the store clerk why there is broken glass outside." I ask the clerk, "What's with all the broken glass in the parking lot? Is it dangerous to park there?"

"It's safe as long as you don't have anything inside your car. They will break your windows and steal whatever you have inside," she says.

Before she can finish her sentence, John starts running back to the van. We all feel like we've caught it in time and hurry to find a blanket for Zion.

A few minutes later, Jake pulls his phone from his pocket and says, "Hey, what's up?" Moments later, I see Jake's jaw drop and eyes widen in amazement. Then, "Are you ok? Did you get hit? Ok, man, I'm right there."

He held the phone down and as he turned to run and said, "John caught the guys. The police are coming. I gotta run."

We three girls and Zion watch Jake leave us and don't know what to do. We decide it's safer to let the dust settle and take our time going back in case there's a fight or something. We nervously pretend to shop as we walk back towards the car. All we manage to buy is a kombucha for Dimitra.

We stop at the door that exits the mall and feel unsafe about going back to the van. Dimitra calls Jake to see what is happening. "Jake, should we come back? Is it safe? Oh, they are gone?!" She hangs up.

"Looks like daddy caught them in the act and they ran off. Now they are waiting for the police."

"Dimitra, did they steal anything?" I ask.

"I don't know. Let's go see what happened."

As we get within eyesight of the van, we see Jake and John looking at their phones, standing outside the van with the side door open. As we walk up, Jake explains, "Guys, two gypsies broke the window and stole a bunch of the suitcases, my backpack, John's backpack, Elli—your big purse."

"Oh my God! John, you were right! We should have listened to you!"

"I saw them doing it and started taking pictures and yelling at them, and as I got closer, they jumped in their car and tried to run me over. I had to jump that metal barricade over there, or they would have run me over!" John was still shaken.

"I can't believe it! Thank God you are ok!"

John started showing us his pictures and how he has their license plate and even photos of them throwing suitcases into their car. The police are on their way and maybe can track them down by the license plate. I look in the van and discover that every piece of my luggage is gone—my red suitcase, my rolling carry-on, and my big purse carry-on. Everything is gone.

"Guys, all of my stuff got stolen, everything!"

"Yes, my and John's backpacks were stolen too. They got my $5000 computer, iPad, and John's computer. It sucks!"

"Oh no! They got my purse, and it has my passport in it!" Johanna says.

"John, do you have our passports?" I ask, frantic.

"Yeah, I have ours, and Jake has his and Dimitra's," John says.

As we wait for the police, I sit in the hot van that still smells like Zion's Bamba and start thinking about what I had in my suitcases. My mind starts making a list as waves of pain and anguish hit my heart, reminding me of all that I lost.

The first thing I think of is all my art supplies. The pouch of art pens I had collected over the years and all my travel brushes. The precious blocks of handmade watercolor paper given to me at graduation by the owners of the paper mill in Fabriano. The deluxe handmade watercolor set and brushes I bought in Assisi, made from pigments found in the hills of Italy—the same pigments Raphael and Michelangelo used. They were mixed with local honey and lavender oil, creating a unique palette of endless possibilities.

Then I remember my laptop! Ugh! I didn't have anything backed up. I just lost three years of my journal and three years' worth of created sources, plus all my files of photos and the sources I just made for my new series.

I remember all of our tax information and important documents. My cards! My wallet with all of my cards and cash. I had at least $300! I start to look at my phone, think about all the banks I have these cards with, and open my apps to try to find numbers. I call American Express first. While I wait on hold, I start thinking about my clothes and shoes. My Johnny Fluevogs are in there! I had collected and curated so many nice things. My Free People jumpers and best, favorite black t-shirts.

No!!! A whole new wave of pain. My favorite jacket of all time, a red vintage tailored lightweight coat with hand-embroidered flowers covering it. It held my favorite palette of red and turquoise. I discovered on this trip in one of our voice sessions with the artists that all along, I thought I loved red and blue together because of Superman. But I realized, obviously, it is because they are the colors of Wonder Woman, the famous Amazon woman! This coat had become my cape. Now it's gone!

A Suitcase Full of Memories

I can't bear it anymore as my mind races through all of my possessions inside the suitcases. I try not to think about it as I talk with the banks, canceling my cards. A deep stab of pain hits as I remember my TUMI carry-on suitcase John just bought me a year ago on our anniversary.

We had been fighting about travel and what our life would look like going forward. John announced that he didn't want to travel anymore and liked staying home. I said, "So this is our life now? I either have to stay home too, or go without you? We have always traveled since the very beginning. This isn't fair to just suddenly change things and say you won't travel anymore."

We fought about it for weeks. Then, on our anniversary, John spent $1000 on this suitcase, way more than I would ever think to spend, and put a note inside that said, "Anywhere in the world you travel with this suitcase, I will be there with you." And now these gypsies have my TUMI suitcase that holds my Wonder Woman coat, Florence purses, and my beloved art supplies. Sadness starts to turn to burning anger for justice.

The police finally show up, and we are imploring them to put an APB out to the other police about the car and license plate because they are probably still close. They say they don't do that. We protest, and they say, "Ok, text me the photos, and we will see what we can do." We all knew that they would do nothing. The police tell us to go to the police station to get a report to give to the rental car company, and we won't have to pay for the window.

They don't understand we don't care about that. We care about computers and the precious information, the jewelry, the cards, the passport, the red jacket, the Johnny Fluevogs they don't make anymore, and the precious art supplies. I can't bear that some gypsy girl will be walking around in my Wonder Woman cape!

After scraping all the glass off the driver's seat, we sadly and quietly drive to the hotel where Dimitra and I will wait while the two guys and Johanna go to the airport to drop off the van and see about her passport. She has a photo of it and hopes the airport has provisions for this type of event.

The Waiting Game

After an hour or so waiting at the hotel, I go downstairs to get a snack because it's now 4 pm and I haven't eaten one morsel all day. They only have chips. I buy a bag of chips, and as I'm paying, I tell the man all about our drama and the gypsies and the stolen suitcases and how they tried to run down my husband.

He is upset and amazed and says it happens at that mall. I tell him that the police aren't doing anything. I tell him that Jake and John went to the police station and showed them photos of the car and license plate and the faces of the gypsies, and we have traced our computers and iPad to an apartment where they took the stuff—yet the police would do nothing.

The hotel man says, "What? This ridiculous. If you can trace your things to apartment, I will call them. Maybe they didn't understand because of English. Show me apartment. I will call that police in neighborhood."

He picks up the phone, and in seconds he is yelling a bunch of Italian. I can pick out a few words: "Roma, Americanos, computer, GPS." Then he holds the phone away and says, "Your husband go to apartment and police will meet you."

"Are you sure? That sounds unsafe! They already tried to run him down with the car. They might have a knife."

He's back on the phone, yelling and waving his arms. By now, Dimitra is next to me, saying Zion is taking a nap and she's hungry.

"He's talking with the police, and they want Jake and John to go meet them at the apartment where the computers are." I make a sketchy face, letting her know I didn't like the idea.

"What? No! That's crazy. Why do they want Daddy and Jake there?" Dimitra asks.

The hotel man pulls the phone down again and says, "The police say they will be there, and it's not dangerous."

"Why do they need to go?" I ask.

"So they can identify their things, and your husband can identify who did it," he explains.

"Let me call Jake and see if they want to go," Dimitra says.

After a lot of back-and-forth yelling in Italian and involving a taxi driver on the other end of Dimitra's phone, it is decided. Johanna will take a taxi to the hotel, and Jake and John will take a different taxi to the gypsy neighborhood and wait inside the taxi until the police arrive.

Johanna comes quickly, and we all go back to my room to talk and pray. We are so nervous yet hopeful that John and Jake will heroically get our stuff back. Every prayer and ounce of faith we have is invested in hoping for a safe sting and returned passport, art supplies, computers, and my Wonder Woman cape.

Another hour passes, so we decide to go get pizza for dinner to have ready and hot when the guys return, hopefully triumphantly with our stuff. We don't allow ourselves to talk about what will happen if they don't. We don't dare think about Johanna having to stay behind and brave downtown Rome and the myriad of pickpockets while she gets her passport at the US embassy.

The pressure mounts as we all think about home and Hurricane Milton threatening to leave us in devastation. We'll need to think about our horses and where we can send them. We'll need to think about the gallery and all the art we are responsible for, only steps from the water that they said would surge over 15 feet. I think about my home and it getting washed into the lake. Images of the destruction of Helene in North Carolina occupy my imagination as I brace for what could come to us.

Finally, as we wait with our warm pizzas in the lobby of the hotel, we see the taxi pull up and the guys get out. I don't see suitcases piled to the ceiling or the trunk pop, only two sullen men politely paying the taxi driver and faintly waving goodbye. They come through the door, look at us, and shrug.

"The police refused to go in. We stood right outside the apartment. We showed them our phones locating our computers. We are only a few feet from our stuff, but the police would not even knock on the door," Jake said.

"Why!? What the heck! Why wouldn't they knock on the door?" Dimitra asked

"It's their policy. They won't go after gypsies."

"What do you mean? Why not? If they broke the law, why can't they arrest them?" I ask.

"They said it is considered racist because it's their culture to steal. For generations, they steal to live. If I steal a purse, I go to jail, but if a gypsy does it, it's just an expression of his culture," Jake explains.

"So why did you even go? Why did the police want you to meet them there? What was the point?" Dimitra asks.

John responds, "They thought if the car was there or one of them was outside, maybe they would talk to them. I know. It doesn't make sense! I'm so frustrated! I wanted to go in and bust them myself!"

None of this makes sense. We all sit deflated, slumped over our almost cold, soggy pizza, not wanting to face our futures. But we have to talk about it.

Dimitra breaks the silence: "Well, I guess me and Jake will stay behind and help Johanna get her passport so she isn't alone, and try to fly out before the hurricane."

Then, after a long pause, Dimitra says, "But I really need to get home, and it will be difficult to be in Rome with Zion for more days. We are out of clean clothes, diapers, and wipes. I need to get the horses moved and secure the house before the hurricane comes." Then she looks up and says, "You and Daddy should stay with her instead!"

John protests, "No way! I need to get home and get all the paintings out of the gallery, move my outdoor furniture, and make sure the dogs are safe. I am NOT staying here!"

It suddenly feels like a game of "1, 2, 3, Not It," and I realize I'm the one who doesn't have her finger on her nose. Everyone is looking at me. I realize it's most logical for me to stay with Johanna in terms of hotel rooms, not having a baby, being the least helpful back home for hurricane prep, and being the most experienced in traveling and rebooking tickets.

"Fine, I will stay with Johanna. It makes the most sense."

I only have my glasses, my phone, my passport, and the clothes I'm wearing. I have no money, no cards, no toothbrush, no change of clothes. I'll be stuck in Italy for who knows how long and have to buy what I need plus a bag to put it in.

I feel too scared to go to the ATM, so John goes to get me some cash and then gives me all his cards, and Jake gives me a business card. Everyone goes to bed for the night because all but Johanna and I will be getting up at 3 am for the 6 am flight.

Finding a Path Forward

I lie in bed listening to John breathe, realizing I'll be alone when I wake up. I have to be the strong one who will reassure Johanna. I can't afford for a bad attitude or fear to take me down. I can't think about all that I lost. I lie there feeling sorry for myself and resentful that I have to stay.

I think about all my stuff and imagine the gypsies going through my things. They probably don't even appreciate all that they scored. I think about the precious Dimitrios jewelry that I have been collecting for years. My perfume and make-up and expensive anti-wrinkle cream. All the clothes I just bought and shoes I found in Florence, my incredibly unique leather purses, and my treasures from Assisi.

Those gypsies have $800 worth of handmade watercolors from pigments found in the hills, the very same pigments all the masters used 500 years ago. They have my handmade paper graciously given to me and all the artwork I made on the trip. I think about the piles of art supplies that are inside those suitcases.

What are those gypsies thinking right now? Will they just toss all the art aside? I'm sure they have never seen paint like that before. Are they curious? Is there a creative seed inside of them stirring and longing to try painting? Will they take a brush and wet it? Will they gaze at the painting of my black horse and see themselves—wild, untamed, unbroken? Will it speak to them and draw deep into the wells of their generations, leading them to find an artist rather than a thief? Will the paintings stir something deep within, awakening their heritage of musicians and dancers? Will the paint inspire their hands to create rather than steal and destroy?

If my art and supplies even turned one gypsy away from crime and into a life of creativity and art, I would sacrifice it all. This thought gives me comfort. My questions turn to prayer as I drift into the darkness of thick sleep.

In the morning, John is gone, and I am alone. I stare at the floor and at the same jeans and t-shirt I came with. I feel more alone than I ever have before—foreign, misplaced, and far from home. I will have to face my fears and Rome, and my family will have to face Milton. Suddenly, the loss of my things feels meaningless and trivial compared to the loss of the people I love and being far away from it all.

I have no choice but to find strength, stand, put on my jeans, and be confident and surefooted for Johanna. I have to help her get her passport and win the privilege to go home.

To be continued...

How do you find strength in challenging moments of solitude?

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