Interrogation Room 37

Amir

ALL RIGHT: I’VE given you all the details you asked for—flight number, time, the address where I stayed in Rome. I’ve shown you the Expedia flight confirmation, the Airbnb receipt, the receipt for the euros I took out at currency exchange, even the picture of the New York City skyline I took from my plane seat. But I’m serious: this trip happened because of gelato. It came together at the last minute, at JFK, and the sole reason I decided on Rome is because I happened upon the sweetest form of ice cream. There were no terrorists. No friends. Just ice cream.

Thirty Days Ago

THE NEXT THING I knew, I was sitting in the middle of a tiny attic apartment I had booked at the last minute. A literal closet. (The irony was not lost on me.) That was when the sum total of my last twenty-four hours of traveling finally started thudding against my head.

It started lightly and then knocked harder and harder as I stared outside my tiny window at the slant of the rooftop. I let my eyes follow the red tile, down the white building walls, the clay windowsills, all the way to the courtyard, where there was a sexy red Vespa sitting on a bed of cracked brick.

And then, a full-on thwack: Holy shit. I was in Rome. They say stress makes you do crazy things. And I mean, I basically blacked out and booked an international trip. That’s like the time I fell asleep on the NYC subway and ended up in Harlem, but on a plane. I don’t remember going to the international departures gate; I don’t remember the flight; I don’t remember the bus ride into Rome or fitting the key in the hole or taking off my shoes.

I rushed outside, onto the street. There I was: Via della Gensola. Moss-covered walls. Cobble. A couple whizzed by on a Vespa, and my gaze turned with them as they stopped at the end of the street and made out for a few seconds before disappearing into the restaurant. It was the most Italian thing ever.

I ran back to my apartment. I burst into the tiny bathroom, nearly bulldozing the ancient water heating system, and stared at my face in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes. Dark bags underneath them.

Looking at myself, there, I knew: You’ve gone too far this time, Amir.

Through my tiny window, I watched it get dark outside. I listened to the clanging of pots and pans from somewhere down below. I heard bells chiming. I smelled fried onion and garlic rising up. There was something freeing about being thousands of miles away from my problems. It didn’t erase them completely, but the distance helped. It always does.

I decided I owed my parents at least the bare minimum of an explanation. So I emailed them: Mom and Dad, please don’t hate me. I’m dealing with a lot right now, but I want you to know that I’m safe. I promise I’m safe, and I’m fine. I just needed to get away for a couple of days. I closed out of my inbox as soon as I hit SEND.