In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2 Read Free Page A

commotion I finish my margarita and order another one. I nibble on the quesadilla, even though it’s gone cold, and find it surprisingly satisfying.
    I stay a while longer, through a few more margaritas, but stop short of getting completely tanked. When the moment arrives, I shuffle past the drunkards, now sipping a complimentary beer, mumbling to each other about that oh-so-strange experience they had. They’re buffoons at best, assholes at worst, and I feel no remorse for what I did. It feels good, in fact, albeit petty. Don’t mess with my family.
    I almost make it to the door, and then I send them another little gift of wind. They hit the floor sputtering, their fancy suits drenched from top to bottom in their fresh beers. I try to keep from laughing as I stagger toward my gate, hoping I’ll be able to sleep on the plane.

3.
    Rome is quite a town. If you’ve never been, you should go. I will caution you about a few things, though:
You will see many feats of driving excellence in Rome. Many will involve the moped, which seems to be the preferred national mode of transportation. Moped drivers are exempt from the laws of all logic and reason, and drive like those Ministry of Magic cars in Harry Potter, finding gaps in traffic and slipping through even the most improbably small holes like they’re greased. Okay, it’s mostly because they’re as crazy as cab drivers, but still. Which brings me to point two:
The cabbies in Rome are nuts. This is in addition to piling multiple people in a cab at the airport. It’s like a commuter van, except you all have to pay a cab rate, and they drop you off in sequence. Hope you’re first, not last, because it’s a real shit-fest when you’re stuck going an hour out of your way to drop off some German tourist who can make lame puns in English. Cabbies in Rome make New York cab drivers look like rank amateurs in the crazy-as-hell department.
The city is organized, but in kind of a nutty way. Not quite as narrow of alley and passage as, say, London, but it’s still a mess of building and rebuilding that goes back to ancient times and probably before.
    Also, odds are good that you’re going to have a hell of a time finding a decent-sized bed. Just fair warning.
    I spend an hour in the cab, no shit, before I get dropped off at my hotel, which is paid for by my sister’s agency and my Uncle Sam. The hotel has the words “Five Stars” in the name, but is not anywhere close to a five-star hotel otherwise, the lying bastards. I get my little narrow bed, with another lonely one just beside it, a plank of wood nailed to the wall that’s maybe supposed to be a desk, and I have to be happy about it, because let’s face it—I wouldn’t be here on my own. Rome is also a pretty expensive city, and at twenty-five, I’m probably a little old to stay in a youth hostel. Possibly also a little too clean-shaven.
    I bounce around my room long enough to unpack the basics, and then I’m out the door again. There’s a café near the Piazza Navona that I’m bound for, and I hop a taxi. Once again, I see many feats of driving excellence. I get the feeling it’s like a battle to the cabbies, like they’re fighting a lonely war against every other car on the road. I don’t know Italian well enough to tell if this lady is swearing under her breath or not, but my euros would be on yes.
    She lets me out in front of a door after driving me in a long-ass circle around a block. I can’t read the name of the place, and it wouldn’t make much sense to me even if I could. On my earlier trips it always seemed like everyone in Rome spoke English, and I doubt everyone has forgotten the language in the last few months.
    I breeze into the café, past a cooler full of panini sandwiches prepared for tourists wandering the cobbled streets with sore feet and rumbling stomachs. My stomach rumbles, too, but I’m busy. I nod at the guy behind the counter, and he nods back, even though he has no idea who I am.