Stranded

Naked and afraid in an Italian locker room

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-Michael

Just six weeks or so after we moved to Milan in 2022, my husband Andrew booked a train ticket to Paris to visit an elderly member of his extended family who was in ill health. I wasn’t able to go with him due to my school schedule, but I told him I’d be fine spending the long weekend home alone with our dog Bibi.

Things were largely uneventful until early Sunday afternoon when I went to the gym. After I finished my workout, I showered and then returned to my locker, dripping wet. I entered the combination on my newly purchased lock, and…nothing. Well that’s weird.

I knew I’d entered the correct combination, because I’d programmed it using the numbers of a significant date in my life. So I tried again. And again. The first time or three, I found it mildly amusing—ha ha, isn’t this crazy—but the humor quickly disappeared as I tried again, and again, and again, to no avail. The lock simply wouldn’t open.

The gym was accessible to members 24/7 via keycard, but it was only staffed during certain hours, and I knew the front desk had closed a couple hours earlier. I began to realize the sober reality of my situation. I was in a city and country where I knew virtually no one. My husband was on his way back from France, not due home for another seven hours. The gym staff wouldn’t return until the following morning. I was cold and wet and alone, with nothing but a towel and flip-flops, my phone and keys and wallet all held captive in my locker. Oh, and did I mention that I don’t speak Italian?

I panicked. I tried the lock over, and over, and over, wracking my brain to think of what possible options I had. Do I walk the 15 minutes home through the December air clad only in my towel? But then what? I don’t have a key, and I don’t know any of our neighbors. Is it possible to somehow break into our fourth-floor apartment?!? Do I stay at the gym, cowering in the locker room, waiting for Andrew to get home late that night? But what if he was delayed? And what about Bibi, who would be expecting her dinner and would doubtless need a walk soon?

There were very few people at the gym that afternoon, and I was the only one in the locker room. I tried desperately to break the lock with my bare fingers. I knew it was hopeless, but it felt better than doing nothing. Think, Michael. THINK. My mind raced as I looked around the locker room, heart pounding, willing myself not to cry. There had to be a way out of this.

Should I go to the front desk and jump over the counter (in my towel!) and hope that I could figure out how to use one of their phones to call…well, to call who, exactly? Our landlady, whose name and number I didn’t even know? The police?!? But I didn’t know how to call the police—does Italy have a 911 equivalent?—and even if I did, I don’t speak Italian and I didn’t know the address of the gym, and surely the police have more important things to do than come to a gym to help someone who is locked out of his locker?!?

At that moment, a 20-something guy entered the locker room. Refusing to allow myself to even contemplate the absurdities and intimacies of the situation, I walked up to him and blurted out in English:

“I am so sorry, I know this must sound crazy, but I just moved to Italy and I am locked out of my locker and I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO!”

To my great relief, he was from an Eastern European country and he spoke some English. Rather than running away from the crazy old near-naked American, he kindly offered to try to help, and he began working on the lock. For some reason, he was convinced that all locks would open if set to 0-0-0-0, and though I knew that wasn’t true, I was just so grateful to not be alone in that moment that I didn’t argue.

I asked if I could borrow his phone to text my roommate—I didn’t mention that said “roommate” was actually my husband, in case my Good Samaritan happened to be a homophobe—and I sent a panicked message to Andrew’s American phone number, which was all I could remember. But it didn’t go through, because my new friend didn’t have a phone plan that allowed for texts to the U.S.

Nearly 10 minutes had passed since he first came to my assistance, and I knew I shouldn’t keep him much longer, as this was my problem, not his.

Another guy had entered the locker room while we were chatting, and he approached me. “Do you need something to get into the locker?” he asked in heavily accented English. “Yes! I am locked out!” I replied, excited but uncertain. He held up a finger and then disappeared, soon returning with large bolt cutters. He broke the lock with one swift motion, the pieces clattering onto the floor. Without missing a beat, he said wryly, “Sorry about your lock.” And then he was gone.¹

…….

This is not the lock that left me stranded. It’s my trusty Master Lock, which at the time was still slowly making its way across the Atlantic in our shipping container.

The Reality of Moving Abroad

Before we left California, we went through a months-long “bootcamp” course about moving to Italy, led by a Canadian woman who now lives in Florence.² One thing that I heard from her and many others during our exploratory research was that “Vacationing in a country is nothing like living in that country.” However, being only human, I heard those words and decided they probably didn’t really apply to ME! I remember telling friends, “Well, of course I’ll still learn the language, but I’ve travelled in Italy a lot³—even by myself for a week—and I’ve always gotten by just fine! Lots of Italians speak English, but even if they don’t, it’s amazing how much you can get across with gestures and facial expressions.”

Eighteen months into my new life, I can tell you that pointing and emoting can only get you so far. (And it is not a long way.) I am still very much out of my comfort zone in Italy, every day, in ways big and small. To live in a foreign land is to navigate an endless tunnel of transition, because vacationing in a country really is nothing like living in that country. This is not, in any way, meant as a complaint. I’m here because I want to be here, and in fact, I love being here, and I’m genuinely grateful every day to be here. But I’m slowly coming to understand that I can love Italy, and I can love living in Italy, but I will always be a foreigner.⁴

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PS: Speaking of Italy…Democrats Abroad Italy is doing our best to get out the vote of Americans who live in Italy to help ensure that Donald Trump never again occupies the Oval Office. If you are a U.S. citizen, we would be very grateful for any donation you make to our *MATCHING* 2024 fundraising drive. More information and full details here. Grazie!

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1. The best I can figure, my savior that day was an employee of the gym who was there after-hours to clean or do maintenance or something else.

2. I’m happy to recommend Samantha Wilson and the services of Smart Move Italy to anyone contemplating a move to Il Bel Paese. I have no affiliation with SMI and receive no compensation of any kind for making this referral.

3. And by “a lot,” I’m embarrassed to tell you that I meant a mere six times, which is in no way adequate preparation for such a move.

4. Or perhaps I should say that I will always be uno straniero, the Italian term for a foreigner which I recently learned. My quest to achieve a better understanding of the Italian language continues.