I walked all the way back to the Spanish Steps, to that Occupy encampment where I had seen some people using laptops. I had no interest in protesting anything, I just wanted to see if someone would let me borrow their computer for a minute, just long enough for a quick Google search.
Search terms: Raeth and Rome and Karla.
I had hoped I could find some electronics shop or library on the way over so I wouldn’t have had to resort to this, but no dice. Where was an Apple store when you needed it?
The encampment seemed to have grown since the day before. Every bit of space on the grassy islands was now taken up by tents and awnings. There were also more police on the scene, some arrayed in a sparse cordon in front of a bank. Another group milled about near a bus, pulling on riot gear. They joked around with each other, not looking stressed in the least.
I hovered on the edge of a group of people sharing a card table. A girl in a floppy hat kept glancing over at me while she engaged in an intense discussion with a guy typing frantically on a MacBook Air. She patted her friend’s shoulder and approached me directly, her eyes quick and sharp.
“Sembri perso. Posso aiutarla?”
“Excuse me? I … I don’t speak Italian.”
“I say you look lost. Are you okay?”
“Um … yeah. I was just hoping to borrow someone’s laptop … just for a second … to do a quick web search?”
“Um … maybe later, okay? Now, Gaetano is updating the web site. We are busy planning a big action—a solidarity march for Occupy London. They are evicted from St. Paul’s last night. But right now we are too few. We need more people to come. You will march with us, yes?”
“Um … sure.”
“You are American? Are you the visitor from Occupy Boston?”
“Um, no … I’ve actually never been to Boston.”
“Wall Street? Zuccotti Park?”
“Sorry, no. I’m actually from Florida.”
“Oh, interesting! I never met anyone from the southern Occupations.”
“Yeah, well. Neither have I.”
That last comment didn’t seem to register with her, thankfully. A girl wearing pink from head to toe got up from one of the laptops. A guy, also in pink, immediately took her place.
“Hey, would you mind if I had a crack at one of those? I would only need a minute.”
“Yes, but I am telling you, now is not a good time. Caterina and Bruno are trying to get the live feed working. But you could join our media committee. You would have more access this way.”
“Um … well ….”
“I am Angelica, by the way.”
“James.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Not yet.”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “Where have you been sleeping?
“Last night? Kind of … on the street.”
“Tonight you will be in a tent. Yes? And I think you could use a bath. Come with me.” She took me by the hand and led me over to a guy with long grey hair, all scraggly and thinning on top. They spoke to each other in Italian. He gave me a once-over with this grave but kindly look in his eyes and handed her a key.
“Come. We have a place for you to wash. And some clothes we can give you from people who donate.”
She marched across the piazza with long strides for someone so petite. We passed a group of folks all dressed in black who were congregating against a wall. Some wore bike helmets and fingerless gloves. One woman was soaking kerchiefs in a plastic basin filled with wine vinegar. One man carried a hand-painted sign bearing slashed A for anarchy over a slogan in Italian.
