“Polizia!”
“Is this a scam?” I wondered, “Am I about to be robbed?” I was just returning from a short shopping spree near theVatican. Rosary beads in hand, it was time to rejoin our traveling delegation and move on to lunch. Markus, our delegation manager, owed me money from the day before; we had just exchanged the change from a €50 he had in his wallet.
Italy is a gorgeous country filled with generous people and delicious food. The landscape is breath-taking. Its capital,Rome, offers its own personal twist on beauty. The food is great, to be sure, but this city is the center of their many celebrations over the centuries. Italyhas another side too; you need to be extra vigilant with your money in this overcrowded city. While you’re clicking photos of the amazing monuments, someone else might be celebrating a new victory over your pocket-book.
“POLIZIA!”
A black wallet with what looked like a large driver’s license was being shown to me.
“POLIZIA! POLIZIA!”
“Is he talking to me?” I asked myself. It was surreal. I knew this well-dressed Italian man could be talking to no one else, but it made no sense. In our 30 minutes of free time, I mailed a few postcards from theVatican, and I bought some rosary beads from an established souvenir shop, not one of the sketchy kiosks on the street. I hadn’t pushed the envelope of propriety, not even a little bit. “Maybe they think I just made a drug deal with our young delegation manager,” I thought.
The policeman started to take my arm and lead me away. I looked to Markus; I must not understand something. He would translate. He would help.
The man could have stepped out of Italian GQ. He was dressed in a nice suit with dark sunglasses on and perfectly coiffed hair. He would have been handsome if not for his threatening disposition.
“Poliiza!” two men behind me started to confirm the request. The badge was out again and much closer to my face.
The day had been disappointing. We had slowly snaked our way through theVaticanMuseumto see the Sistine Chapel and were supposed to finish our tour by walking through St. Peter’s Basilica. Our delegation trudged along the fortress wall surrounding the State in the humid heat only to discover the basilica was closed. The Pope had just finished mass, and they weren’t going to reopen the church to the public for at least three hours. It’s serious business when “the man” is working. There were metal detectors at every column of the piazza and dozens of blue uniformed police manning each one. The place looked on high alert.
(In Italian) “Excuse me, are these men really the police?” Markus asked a patrol officer.
The stern voices turned angry. Disrespect for disbelief. The men in black were yelling at Markus and pulling me away. Holly, another leader, was behind me saying she was there with me.
“I am being kidnapped,” was the thought that crossed my mind. I was being forced away from the area with 45 teenage eyes watching. “Whatever the consequence, do not get in a car.” Advice I had once heard popped into my head. I guess your chance of survival is next to nothing if you get in the car. Was I going to be shot at the curb? Despite the heavy thoughts running through my head, I was absurdly calm. I observed all details. I thought slowly. The same time-stopping phenomenon that happens in a car wreck was occurring now.
My escorts were taking me back over my earlier steps. I was on the other side of the archway again, this time turning right. I looked over to my left and saw Markus. The Polizia di Stato were repeatedly pushing him towards the Italian version of a paddy wagon. While they were pulling on my arm, they were pretty rough with Markus.
I was beginning to get scared. There were at least 25 uniformed officers surrounding the six to eight plain-clothed police taking us away. I was going to be arrested. “How big of a threat did they think we were?” I wondered.
- Incognito Police Building
“My passport is in my Mini-Cooper bag in our hotel room,” I started directing Holly. “Call Tim. His office number is 532-….. tell the person who answers it’s an emergency.” She was quickly walking next to me and writing down the information. “You should go now,” I said. She informed me that she was also being forced to go to the station. I thought she had been acting in support.
The shouting had not stopped since we were under theVatican’s wall. In the stairwell of the police station, it bounced and echoed off of the walls. Just like the volume, my feelings intensified.
They brought us to a small, white room, barely big enough for three desks and a few filing cabinets. Two men leaned against a windowsill and watched. They kept their designer sunglasses on and crossed their arms across their chest. A larger man sat in a desk and lectured Markus. A fourth man blocked the door. The original police man who flashed his identification at me was pacing the room. Holly sat quietly in a chair by the third desk, and I stood quietly. Markus was arguing with them. Both sides were right and attempting to prove it with the power of their gestures and spirited Italian.
The larger man was angrily flipping through Markus’s notebook. Markus’s phone rang and he answered it. It was his company calling him. The shorter man grabbed the phone out his hands and threw it on desk.
(In Italian…)
”What is People to People?”
“Who is PDM”
“Who is Lori?”
“Who is Hollly?”
“What is the purpose of People to People?”
“How do we know you are not a false guide?”
“Why were you exchanging money?”
“Why were you at theVatican?”
“Why did she give you money?”
“What is the money for?”
I stood there trying to mentally translate the conversation as best as I could. Posters of snipers in full police combat gear decorated the room. It was intimidating.
Markus was answering every question, with paperwork, vouchers and receipts to back up every answer. The tension began to dissipate. Turning to me and speaking in English for the first time since the ordeal began, the polizia explained that they thought that Markus was a fake city tour guide. I knew this was a serious crime, all of my past tour managers have been really strict about not sharing any information about a city except on the closed-door bus.
How did I react to the first consideration given to me? Inappropriately, of course
“Markus is a terrible guide!” I joked. “We’re always lost, and we are late everywhere we go. We wouldn’t pay for him!”
Everyone laughed. Well, everyone except the short GQ policeman.
We had forms to fill out. Markus had to vouch for our identities. The little police guy had to threaten Holly and me one more time with something about his power to keep us without reason for up to 24 hours if he wanted to. And then he opened the door and released us.
- Italian State Police
We walked out of the station with the misunderstanding behind us. I turned around and took a picture. I didn’t have the guts to pose in front of the Italian and EU flags marking the entrance, but I did snap a shot of the building.
Someday, this will make a great travel tale, but I need to leave the land of the Carabinieri before I can find humor in it.
June 25, 2011 | Categories: travel | Tags: guide, italy, police, polizia di stato, travel, vatican | Leave a comment
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