Rome a sudden detour.

Mirrors have secrets and hold time within. There are mirrors that break, mirrors of a river and those mirrors of the soul. As we stand in front of a mirror, we should search not only our image but also other mysteries and invisible wonders that hide inside. The proof of the mirror is something that frightens women, more than the breakage of the glass and the years of bad luck that superstition unleashes. Men are less afraid of their reflection in the crystal because they have the practicality of accepting what they see being tolerant with their spare tires although not so much with their loss of hair.

It is rigorous the examination we undergo to determine if we will proudly wear the swimsuit for the holidays. Whether on the beach or in the pool most of us like to look good. However, there are always brave men and women who could care less how their flabby meats dance as they walk that endless path between the water and the beach umbrella buried in the sand. Those imperfect beings with abundant curves heroically dressed in non-fitting bathing suits are people to admire and thank. Many of the spectators, looking at them, lose their own shame and feel better by comparison. Generally, the fearless swimmers make us smile or open our mouths in disbelief when they are hit by the waves and kick on the shore as if they were at the bottom of the sea. After the struck of the waves, they try to recover and rapidly remove their hair from the face. Due to a sudden blindness from the salty water, they forget to adjust their swimming suits to cover those parts that were exposed. “Oh no”, our mind says. Many lose their outfits in the pool when their slow mode jump splashes water all over the earth. The wet bathing suits of the risky bathers highlight all the excesses and defects that should remain hidden. ¡Not to mention the plunge from the diving board! That is why one must try hard to choose the proper bathing suit. However, there are women in bikinis that they can’t fit in and men in bathing pants that hang under their belly pots a few millimeters away from falling and exposing their forbidden parts. Only those people with a decent figure should dare to walk around in fashion mini suits. Despite this, it is amazing to see that many young and old people do not care about their appearance because, at a certain point, it is better to accept the physical imperfection or deterioration than to refrain from experiencing the summer pleasure of being in the water and forgetting about anything else.

The month of July was approaching, and the mirror returned to me the image of arms with soft skin, firm breasts, a curvy buttock, a thin waist, never so small like my mother’s, zero fat, a smooth stomach, though not totally flat and, unfortunately, thick thighs that never fit the rest of my measurements. But what bothered me most was that my knees looked plump. For a few years I had very nice legs, but from fifteen to seventeen my knees and thighs increased in size maybe because I loved eating. Thank God under the knee my legs were pretty. Anyway, it was impossible for me to compete with my sister’s spectacular legs in a miniskirt and I only wore a short skirt when my legs were suntan because the dark color of my skin made them look more graceful. Little by little, as the valiant bathers, I got to accept my chunky knees. Before the holidays I used to go for massages to improve their appearance and to keep my thighs firm since for years I have been terrified by the possible flaccidity of this part of my body.

My mother used to have problems with her back if she gained weight so, that year, she joined a beauty center to undergo a new treatment to lose the extra pounds. After a week, she invited me to enroll in the program because the paraffin wraps were really helping. In addition, she had met a sweet young woman who according to my mom should be my friend because her intuition told her that our friendship had to happen. Since I was going on vacation to the beach, losing an inch of my thighs and knees seemed a good idea and I accepted the invitation to meet «the Italian girl» and start with hot wraps made with a substance used to produce candles. Daniela was indeed a wonderful girl of Italian origin with a beautiful face, a singing laugh, and a sensual body. As my mom predicted, we connected immediately and started a friendship that would make us inseparable for years and lead me to learn Italian. We would pick stretchers next to each other and the beauty center attendants would lay us down on these beds covered with yards of plastic and would smear our whole body, except for the face and hair, with a molten hot wax that smelled nice and caused a strange sensation of well-being when in contact with the skin. After, the assistants would wrap us like tamales with the plastic and cover us with several thick wool blankets to put us to sweat for forty-five minutes. Sometimes Daniela and I felt like we were in a rotisserie and, instead of smoking like burnt chickens, we talked non-stop to be distracted and to make our torture bearable. The Italian girl and I were talkers, a quality that kept us alive when the world seemed to be melting and kept me away from any claustrophobic feelings. Meanwhile my mom silently listened to us with the calm of a guru entertained by our cheer conversation.

After the sweating session came the second part of the treatment. The assistants would take us to a section where they ripped the plastic and removed the hardened paraffin to drape us again, this time with bandages colder than ice itself. It was like moving from the lava of the Vesuvius volcano to the icy surface of the North Pole. And while we were shivering from the cold that penetrated us to the bones, Daniela kept talking to me about Italy and her food, traditions, good-looking men, love, music, landscapes, cinema, art, architecture, and fashion. I fell in love with everything my friend told me, and just like that, the idea of traveling to Italy and staying there for six months was born. I had visited Milan for two days back from a trip to London, but I did not have the opportunity to live and taste all those great things that my partner described while we were in the oven and, later, in the refrigerator.

The following year I went to France to improve my French because I needed to do public relations with some of my clients. For two years I postponed my trip to Italy until the right time came to quit my job and fly away. At that time Daniela had a boyfriend that I introduced her and that was from India or Pakistan, I do not recall exactly. He was a pleasant man, very dear and a great executive at the bank where I worked. They were both happy with their relationship until the consort’s mother arrived and put an end to the romance. I’m not sure if the pretty artistic elegant blond hair lady was English born in India or Indian born in England or married to an English man.  Anyway, her son was her treasure, and his wife was to be a Hindu. Things changed for my catholic friend and a week before I traveled to Italy, Daniela told me, «I’m going with you». I was happy as a lark because I would not travel alone or had to look for a hotel in a city I did not know since Daniela’s parents owned an apartment in an old building with a shared terrace in a central neighborhood of Rome. We bought the plane tickets and left Colombia to go to the Eternal City where I stayed for seven years.

It comes to mind that moment when I looked at myself in the mirror and saw only my thick thighs and puffy knees without noticing that in the land of mirrors was hiding a surprising detour of my future taking me on roads that, after all, would lead me to Rome.