ARRIVAL IN ITALY – PART 20

 

ARRIVAL IN ITALY – PART 20

The plane touched down in Germany for a layover. We shambled off like the sleep-deprived zombies we were, bumping into each other and dragging our bags like toddlers with too many toys. I made a beeline to the nearest coffee bar. I needed caffeine more than air.

“I don’t know if you can smoke in here,” said Useless, rooting through her Mary Poppins bag for a cigarette like her life depended on it. Meanwhile, our ever-composed British castmate joined us in the terminal—rested, smiling, practically glowing. The rest of us looked like a school bus crashed into a haunted house.

After a couple of hours in the terminal, we boarded the next plane. Once again, Lady Astor—the same cast member who’d asked me to rub her feet on the last flight—became a walking hazard. With twenty carry-ons in tow, she swatted people in the head, elbowed strangers, and staged a full-blown Tetris tournament in the overhead compartments. Bags in. Bags out. She barked at passengers to move their things so she could fit all of hers in one place. The plane was delayed a full twenty minutes thanks to her one-woman show.

Finally, the engine roared and we were off.

Somewhere over the Alps, our adult identities dissolved and we became kids again. We played stupid games to pass the time. I found myself seated between Tickle Me Elmo and Sleep-and-Snore Ernie—two castmates giggling and drooling through the flight.

Then we began our descent.

Italy.

We were finally here, and I couldn’t have been more excited.

Once we reached the baggage claim, I tried to flex my newly acquired Italian. I pointed at my bags on the carousel and told a porter in what I thought was flawless Italian that my dog had a head cold. He stared at me, utterly baffled. I don’t blame him. I probably sounded like I was ordering lasagna with a side of bronchitis.

A bus was waiting for us—packed with potential and dust. We loaded in, sat down, and waited. And waited. An hour and a half passed while Casting and Useless put their two very confused heads together trying to figure out what came next.

Meanwhile, a new rumor started to ripple through the cast.

Apparently, the three assistants had written a formal letter to the head of the company, detailing just how toxic the Choreographer had been. They declared him one of the worst they'd worked with, citing his daily changes, erratic demands, and complete disregard for the show’s structure. They’d made it clear: Either he goes, or we do.

What happened next wasn’t entirely clear, but the Choreographer wouldn’t be joining us for the start of rehearsals. Instead, the assistants would be left in charge for three glorious weeks. We exhaled. At least now we could rehearse in peace. For a while.

Of course, when the Choreographer did return, all hell would break loose. Daily changes. Scream matches with the Director. Sides would be chosen. Lines drawn. But we didn’t know that yet.

We pulled up to the Hotel Lugano, our supposed "four-star" paradise just outside of Venice. It was to be our temporary home until we took “possession of the product.” That phrase had become the company’s favorite vague term for when they’d finally hand over the show. Spoiler alert: this hotel would become one of the last good memories before the descent into hard hats and shipyard rehearsals.

Our old company manager, Sorella (Italian for “sister”), was still with us for a few weeks to train Useless. We didn’t know yet how much we’d miss him. Once Useless officially took over, she would spend more time brown-nosing Power Suit than actually doing her job. Morale would plummet. She would split the cast in two like a bad high school cafeteria table. Eventually, I’d walk the hotel hallways campaigning for her removal—literally going door-to-door collecting votes and demanding a recount like it was Florida in 2000.

But that would come later.

For now, my room was… charming in a very creative way. It faced a concrete alley and overlooked a “pool” filled with green algae and what appeared to be a floating shoe. But I didn’t care. I was in Italy. I could see a bit of mold and still call it mood lighting.

Starving, I made my way to the front door in search of pasta, wine, and a brief escape.

But as I passed the company manager’s room, something stopped me.

A dry erase board hung on the door.

MEETING TONIGHT, it read.

Of course.

The show, as always, was just beginning.