Traffic

During a recent project for work, I was reminded of an incident that happened to me years ago... one of the very many 'I'm glad I don't know what that was about' stories that kept my parents ever-fearful about me arriving back home in one piece

When I was 17, I went to Rome for Easter break with a group of classmates from the Lycee I attended in France. On the whole, I loved my visit to this stunning and ancient city, with its wonderful architecture, artwork and imperial history. But for several reasons, I am very lucky that I came away from there in one piece.

For one, I still had not lost the Haligonian habit of stepping off the curb in the middle of traffic and expecting everyone to stop and let me cross the street… even during rush hour… and across a 5-lane roundabout. No, in Rome, they not only don’t stop, but in many cases I’m pretty sure that the drivers actually speed up and gun for you.

However there is another story of note. The day before returning to France, my classmates and I had taken the train to Naples, and we continued on to Pompeii, where we visited this fascinating city, renowned both for its history of phallic worship and for meeting its fate at the hands of a volcano. After an exhausting day, of wandering around museums, churches and galleries, and even playing a somewhat intoxicated game of hide-and-seek among Pompeii’s erotic ruins, we returned to Rome by train, a trip that was interrupted when someone apparently jumped in front of the train to end their life. Although we were largely oblivious to what had happened, it took a toll on those of us who eventually heard this story.

When we finally arrived back at our hotel late that night, my travel companions were understandably physically and emotionally drained. I, however, have always been a night-owl and come alive at night. Wide awake and not wanting to waste my last night in this beautiful city, I decided to go out for a walk, leaving my friends behind to watch black and white Italian movies, and ignoring my mother’s wise advice about not going out alone at nighttime, especially in Rome.

I set out on foot from Piazza de la Republica down via Nazionale and towards the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A number of times along the way, cars stopped and Italian men would try to communicate with me, to which I would shrug and simply say ‘Sorry, no Italiano.’ The area near the tomb was quite dark, and there were few people around, and after staring at this rather fascinating piece of architecture dubbed the Wedding Cake by my Classics professor, I began making my way back along a side street that would eventually rejoin Nazionale.

As I walked by a small bar, a man came out, and began speaking to me. Being quite naïve at the time and thinking that it would be very rude to just ignore the man, I replied hello back. The man then began a lengthy monologue describing his Nigerian origins and work that had brought him to Rome, while I tried to devise a polite way to excuse myself from the conversation. He eventually insisted that I give him my address so he could write to me, which I gave it to him reluctantly (with some ‘adjustments’) thinking that he would perhaps let me go on my way. Yet this act prompted another soliloquy during which he announced his intention to come and find me in Canada in order to bring me back to Nigeria as his 3^rd (or was it 4^th?) wife. Lucky me!

Somewhere around this point, another man walked by wearing a 3-piece brown suit and hat, heard our conversation, and stopped and waited a few meters away. I was now very uncomfortable with this situation, and finally insisted to the Nigerian that I had to return to my friends. He went on his way down the road, while I proceeded up the street, now pursued by the man in the brown suit.

It was at this point that I began to realize that a small blue car had circled the block several times, and the driver was clearly focused on me. I began to walk a little faster, and so did the man. I crossed the street, and so did the man. I then broke out into a full run, and the man followed suit. At this point, the blue car came around the corner again and the driver began yelling something to the man in the suit. He then drove his car up onto the sidewalk right in front of me, in attempt I suppose to cut off my escape. I somehow got around the car and broke into a full on sprint up the road, with both men now running after me.

I don’t recall all these years later how close they got, because at that point I ran into a group of my classmates, who, as my luck would have it, had gotten bored of watching movies they couldn’t understand and had decided to venture out for a walk. The man in the brown suit took off down a side street, while the driver returned to his car and took off down another road, and I never saw either of them again. Panting and quite shaken, I tried to explain what had happened. Even today, it doesn’t seem real, and I’ve often questioned if my memories are clear, but of course I know they are.

I’ll luckily never know what exactly they wanted, or even if they knew each other. But if I had to guess (as I did at the time), I would say that they were trying to kidnap me… for whatever reason. That remains my theory today.