The love bus

I'm on my way home from Rome. The number 64 is the bus to Roma Terminale from which I can catch the train to Fiumincino airport.

It's the morning rush hour and the bus is crammed with commuters. As we travel along the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, the number of commuters declines and the number of tourists returning to the central station increases. Like Paris buses, there are few seats and lots of standing room. Travellers sit on their cases which go into occasional freefall around a sharp corner.

The bus remains crammed. Standing room only. I notice a woman who is very obviously a tourist. she's in her fifties. Unglamourous. She is wearing clothes which she clearly only wears on holiday. She has a bright red 'fun' vacationer's suitcase. She is alone.

An Italian man stands behind her. He's much younger. Around 30. He leans close behind her. She doesn't speak Italian. He speaks to her in English.

Is this your first time in Rome? he asks.

Did you go to see the Forum? The Pantheon? Did you think they were beautiful? Where are you from? Did you visit the Bernini fountain? Would you like to return to Rome?

As the bus rounds a corner, he leans closer, right against her. She must be able to feel his stubble against her cheek. He is almost whispering in her ear.

Why is he doing this? Is he trying to pick her pocket? Does he have a thing about older women? Or is he a genuine ambassador of the city, eager to leave the woman with a favourable impression?

At this very moment, I notice a light pressure against my thigh. I look behind me. There's an old, not un-handsome Italian guy in a checked shirt with a grey pointed moustache which he is obviously proud enough to care for. He is not looking at me. His eyes are focussed on a distant point as can only be the eyes of someone who is deliverately trying to avoid your gaze.

The pressure on my leg is light. A butterfly-like tapping. It moves up. It begins to move down again. The bus swings in the opposite direction. It doesn't go away. It must be deliberate.

I wonder what I should do. Should I shout? Should I move away? Should I turn to him and hiss, testa di cazzo!*, a phrase a friend taught me to deal with just such a situation. I examine my feelings. Am I annoyed? No, not really. Is he doing any harm? Would I harm him more by a public telling off? Or would I end up looking ridiculous? Would I diminish a pleasure which is costing me very little? Above all, would I sacrifice my storyteller's desire to know what happens next?

By the time I have thought about this for some time, we are approaching Terminale and such reactions come to seem a little ungenerous. I don't think the hand is going anywhere else and the butterfly tappings are so light as to seem politely tentative. If that's what gets him his kicks, why not?

We reach the stop for the station.

I look accross at the other tourist and her toy boy. They are still aimiably discussing the beauty of Romes sites. I am still worried that he is going to rob her.

Nothing has happened. Maybe nothing has happened to her either. Maybe she's the winner in this sitaution. Maybe everything is just as it seems.

Maybe there is no story.

I get off and drag my suitcase toward the station. I don't see either of the men leave the bus. A fresh group of tourists exist the station and pile onto the bus.

I wonder whether they will be making the return journey.

...

*dickhead. For more great Italian swear words, see here.

Comments

[nancy]

oh that was all so creepy.
nancy

[lagatta à Montréal]

The 64 bus is also most notorious as a convenient source of quick cash and valuables for pickpockets. I was warned about it before ever getting to Rome.

There is a certain variety of Italian creep that gets his thrills from groping tourists, and chatting up tourists of all ages and appearances. I think that was far more common when Italy was a poorer country (now there are a lot of Italians who go on holiday in countries in the South).

[La Belette Rouge]

Frotteurism on the bus. Yuck! But, when in Rome....Um, not sure where I was going with that.

[badaude]

Belette - why didn't I think of saying that?! Talk about esprit di scala...

However, my experience doesn't seem to have been quite so bad as this account of a visit to Paris.
http://dir.salon.com/story/sex/feature/2001/01/02/france/
(see page 2, para 2).

This must have been a while before my time. I don't see much flashing on the Boulevard Saint Germain nowadays...