The Aly

His leg was crossed in a way that made his dirty little sock stare relentlessly at me and declare, “smell me.”  As my Mom and I made our way to Roma on the Regionale train I was wishing I had my Italian phrasebook that had a whole section on insults.  I had originally thought, why would I even need to know this stuff.  I get by on my limited knowledge of Italian swears and hand gestures but what I could really use now was, “you are disgusting.”  I felt like we were in a brother – sister stand off, “not touching, can’t get mad…not touching, can’t get mad!”  Only I was and to top it off, not only was his nasty foot staring at me, but his gaze had not shifted from me since the train left the station two hours ago.

In the U.S. we have deemed staring rude and inappropriate for specific circumstances.  We’re not supposed to take an extended look at a person in a wheel chair or wait to see if an obese person will fit in their airplane seat.  It’s offensive to get a double take of someone who is missing an arm.  If a man looks at a girl’s assets as she walks by it’s chauvinistic and repulsive.  In Italy apparently, they didn’t get the memo.  This guy is sitting diagonally across from me and just staring.  I glare at him several times and it’s my meanest stare I can come up with.  To him though, I probably look as though I am partaking in the ritual dance of man and woman.  He stares and then I stare and then we get married on the Ponte Vecchio.  The dance I’m imagining, however, involves me ringing his neck.

He came off as one of the guys at the gym I go to back home.  When he sat down he immediately took off his shirt to reveal his tight, sleeveless workout shirt with his big arms exposed.  In all honesty he really lacked good definition and I was far from impressed.  Then he began eating one of those fatten-up-bars to achieve the maximum calorie intake for the day.  And then he took off his shoes…and then his socks.  It should be noted that I hate feet.  I mean, I really hate feet.  I deal with my own but I have no desire to look at other peoples’ feet.  So when he started picking at his toes I could barely sit still in my seat.  Why had we opted for the cheaper, regional train over the sleek and sophisticated Eurostar train?  When confronted with the ultimate quandary of the avid traveler, to splurge or save on accommodations and transportation our Roma tour guide would say always remember,  “you’re not that poor.”