Pam clutched her passport, her ticket stub stuffed between the pages as she followed the signs toward customs at Leonardo da Vinci Fiumicino Airport.  Lining up behind an eclectic mix of travelers, Pam looked at her passport photo again.  It had been serendipitous that she even had a passport in the first place.  While still in Scranton, Pam had applied for one. At the time, part of her had hoped that there might be a reason to use it.  Instead, like most things in her life, it ended up buried away and hidden from sight.

“La Sua passaporto.” The voice startled her, waking her from her thoughts.

“Oh, right.  Here you go,” she slid the passport under the window.  The guard flipped to her photo page, looked up at her and back down at the picture.  He took his stamp and with a heavy hand brought it down on one of the many blank pages.

“Benvenuto.  Welcome,” he said giving a quick smile.  He handed back her passport and pointed her toward the baggage carousel.

She nodded, shifting the shoulder strap of her bag.  “Grazie,” she smiled.  Her Lonely Planet phrasebook was already coming in handy.

As she waited for the carousel to bring her luggage, crushed between travelers, she opened her passport to page twelve.  There, within a small blue square was the date, an outline of a plane and the name “FIUMICINO”.

She had arrived.  The city that had in part birthed classical architecture and the finest artwork in history had now given her the first stamp in her passport.

***
Shortly after arriving in Rome, Karen and Jim had successfully hailed their first Italian taxi.  Despite an obvious communication barrier, Karen had managed to use what broken Italian she knew to ask their driver to take them to the Hotel Aurelius. 

The small hotel was located off of the longest road in Rome, Via Aurelia. A travel website had promised a short distance to Vatican City and central Rome.  They had booked with the hotel in part because of its simplistic brick framed entrance and reasonable rates.  Upon arrival they discovered a quaint, yet comfortable lobby where issues of the daily newspaper, La Repubblica, lay strewn about.    To the left of the lobby, down a small flight of stairs, was a simple breakfast lounge.  Red chairs were tucked under yellow flowered tablecloths and fake grape vines hung from the ceiling, giving the impression of a Roman vineyard.

With a wink, the hotel representative had given them a key to a room that he promised faced onto a terrace and would be perfect for the “ragazzo e ragazza.”

Karen heaved her suitcase onto the bed in their hotel room, its weight causing her to fall next to it. 

“This country is really hot in August,” she declared, fanning herself, leaning up from the bed.  “Is there a window we can open?”

Jim turned, looking around their tiny room. “Where would they even put a window?”  Laughing, he added, “There’s a door, though.”  

“This is looking pretty miserable,” she grimaced, sitting on their small double bed as Jim headed into the bathroom.

“You’re going to die when you see this,” he called out.

“Don’t even tell me… does it at least have a toilet?” Karen groaned, closing her eyes, afraid of his answer.

“Definitely has a toilet.”  Jim’s voice hid a slight chuckle.  “But it’s right below the showerhead.”

“What?!” Karen leapt up and ran into the washroom, pushing her small frame past Jim.  Sure enough, the showerhead was placed directly above the toilet. 

“What happens when you shower?” She asked, eyebrows raised in annoyance.  “Does it go into the toilet?”

“I guess you could close the lid…?”  Jim laughed.  “This is going to be seriously interesting.” 

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Karen declared, grabbing her travel guide.  “I don’t even want to think about the toilet that doubles as a shower.”

As Karen headed out the door, Jim patted his pocket.  The ring was safely tucked away in his cargo shorts, ready to appear at the perfect moment.

***
Pam quickly flipped through her phrasebook.  Throughout the seven hour flight, whatever time she hadn’t spent sleeping she had spent memorizing Italian phrases.  She knew she had passed by a section on taxis and now at the moment she needed it most, it was nowhere to be found.

“Signorina?” called out the driver.

“Um…err,” she stalled, the pages bending as she fervently searched.  “Uno… um….una…”

“Where to?” the driver finally asked, his words affected by his accent.

“Oh!” Pam exclaimed.  “You speak English!” She glanced down at her travel information. “Uh… Hotel Parco Tirreno.  Via Aurelia.”

“Si.”

The car swerved in and out Rome’s traffic, eclipsing speeds that Pam was sure were beyond any reasonable local limit. She clutched the head rest of the passenger seat in front of her, afraid that her first trip abroad might just be her last.

Eventually the taxi slowed as it approached a small single lane that wound up a hill.  It was protected by an automatic barrier, monitored by hotel security.  The driver rolled down his window, navigating their entry in a blur of Italian; Pam watched as the barrier lifted.  Her eyes widened as the trees and greenery cleared and she began to see the face of her temporary home. 

Parco Tirreno certainly exceeded her expectations.  Not having had the time to search the internet for an image of the hotel, she arrived in Rome with only an address.  The hotel resembled something she’d seen in films.  Surely there wasn’t anything similar to it in either Scranton or Buffalo.  The front entrance was shaded by palm trees, their fronds reaching skyward. A lovely terrace sat to the left, protecting the outdoor furniture with several awnings.  An alluring garden was just in front, surrounding a small pond with a three tiered fountain that sprayed a stream of water.

As she pulled her luggage behind her, she found it difficult to control her excitement.  She was in Rome and at a beautiful hotel that she never would have dreamed of staying in, much less be able to afford. The automatic doors slid open, a rush of cool air greeting her. 

“Buongiorno,” said a voice from behind a capacious desk. His smile welcomed her, his black hotel uniform pressed and immaculate.

“Hi.  I have a reservation.  Pam Beesly.”

“Si.  One minute, I’ll pull up your information.”

Pam gazed around the lobby; three beautiful orange and green sofas sat below a large window with a view to the front gardens.  A large map of Rome covered another wall, historical locations brightly identified by cartoon renderings.  Pam’s excitement continued to grow; she desperately wanted to stow her suitcase in her room so she could explore the city immediately.

The clerk tore a page from a computer print out and had her sign the hotel confirmation.   Once she’d confirmed the credit card information, he handed her a door key card.

“Room 450.  The elevator is down the hall.”

“Thank you,” she said.  As Pam was about to turn away from the counter, a thought occurred to her.  “Excuse me?  Sorry…” she began meekly.  “I was wondering if there was a computer or the internet I could use.”

“Si.  We have a computer here in the lobby.  But its internet is not working today.  There is an internet café just down Aurelia, before Piazza San Giovanni.”  He reached down and pulled out a stack of maps.  Tearing a page from the pile, he circled the piazza.

“Parco Tirreno here,” he said pointing with his pen to a blue dot marked Parco Tirreno.  “Internet Café, là,” his pen made a sharp arrow to the piazza. “Simple, no?”

“Yes, grazie.”  She smiled, folded up the map and stuffed it into her satchel.  Her heart beat quickly as she headed toward the elevators, ready to begin her Roman adventure.

***
Jim craned his neck, his eyes thirsty, drinking in the scenes that had five hundred years ago been so lovingly hand painted by the many talented artists of Rome’s history.

Michelangelo, Perugino, Botticelli, Rossellini…

Every inch seemed to be covered; each fresco’s brilliant colours having recently been restored to their original splendor.  The long wait outside of the Vatican walls had certainly proven to be worthwhile.

“Silencio!”

Every so often, the noise level in the chapel would rise as travelers and visitors became increasingly excited with the artistry that surrounded them.  A Swiss guardsman, clad in a ridiculous uniform of red, yellow and blue, chastised the onlookers, reminding them that it was indeed the Sistine Chapel and ultimately a place of worship.

“Look,” he whispered to Karen, pointing to a large painting hung from a lower tier in the room.  “It’s Perugino’s ‘Christ giving the Key to St. Peter’.  You totally can see the old Vatican and everything.  See the guy on the right, with the black cap?  That’s supposedly Perugino.”

“How do you know that?”

How did he know that?  In his distant past, when he’d been blind and foolish, there had been a time where he would pick up a book on art- any book- and just absorb it.  He wanted to learn everything, devour every detail, wanted to know what she knew. He wanted to amaze her with his knowledge of classical paintings, Flemish artwork and Grecian sculptures.  At the time it had been a way to show that he was different, that he loved what she loved, loved her more than anyone else. Now, looking back, it had likely been a childish endeavor; but there was something about the chapel.  He could almost see her sitting on one of the small benches off to the side, crushed between camera-laden tourists, her sketch pad on her lap, her pencil strokes quick and precise. 

He smiled at the thought and for a brief moment and wished that he could share this room with Pam. He wished he could stare at her as she breathed in all the details.  Surely her eyes would be wide, her neck arched toward the ceiling.  Michelangelo’s artistry would likely attract her interest first.  Its incredible beauty and symbolism would not be lost on her.  There, high above, was God, reaching out to man; not quite touching, yet united at the same time.
“Earth to Jim?”

“I guess I must have read it somewhere,” he said finally.

***
As excited as she was to begin exploring the city and to begin sketching the history that surrounded her, it was still Monday.  And every Monday she was drawn back into her old habit.

Inside the internet café she found rows of computers, most of them occupied by an assortment of tourists.  Pam selected one near the front window and slid three Euros into the coin slot.

Like previous Mondays, she logged into Facebook, the process having long become mechanical.  The irony was not lost on her.  There she was in Rome, yet still thinking of Jim. She led the cursor to the “Search” box and typed in his name, always lower case: jim halpert.

Within seconds the list of familiar Jim Halperts from across the world flooded the screen.  Like before, Pam scrolled the list, expecting nothing new.  As she drew the cursor down, her hand froze, her heart stopped, her mouth suddenly dry. 

She stared at the photo, his name bolded.  His face staring back at her, it was a photo from when he had dressed up as Dwight several years back as a prank.  His hair was parted in the middle, oversized glasses perched on his nose; the yellow short sleeved shirt that in any other circumstance would have made her laugh at the memory.  Only today, as she sat in the internet café, she was in stunned silence.

Her mouth hung open, her eyes not daring to tear away from the photo.  Her heart pounded in her chest.  For a year she had been waiting for his profile to appear.  For so long, she had been waiting for this moment.  But instead of the elation she had expected, she felt nervous.  Her heart threatened to leap from her chest, her throat felt like it was going to close in on her. She bit her lower lip, now dry, and perched her hands over the keyboard. 

Half of her wanted to click the red box in the corner of the screen and forget the moment had even happened.  The other half prompted her to message him, “poke” him, add him as a “friend,” anything-- to do something.

Instead she just stared. She stared at the ridiculously disguised face that smiled at her.  It had been that smile that had haunted her dreams, her thoughts and her very existence on what had seemed like a daily basis.  She had refused dates with men because of that smile, his kindness, gentleness, patience that had gotten her through her days at Dunder-Mifflin.  She was staring at the man whom she had, in part, broken up her engagement to Roy. It felt surreal.

She exhaled and did the only thing she could do: she clicked on the link that allowed her to see his “friends.” She didn’t know what to expect by clicking that link.  She swallowed hard, wanting to cringe; it was as though the next moment could possibly hurt her physically.  The slow internet connection revealed the list of his friends, their pictures gradually appearing. 

Jim couldn’t have been registered at the site for more than a week.  Yet, as she expected, he had almost 15 names listed.  She saw some familiar faces: his old roommate Mark, his brother Jonathan, some others she assumed were relatives because of their shared last name.  But there were a few she didn’t recognize.  There was a slender brunette, her long hair tossed to the side, standing on a beach, a margarita glass clutched in one hand.  There was a leggy blonde, her photo looking like it could be the next cover of InStyle magazine.  As Pam continued to scroll, she saw another, more familiar, darker haired woman. 

Her eyes started to sting, tears beginning to force their way through.  This photo was different from the other two.  In this photo she saw Jim’s profile.  The same profile she had stared at for five years.  The very profile she would sneak glances at when he was deep in thought or on a sales call.  The exact profile that she wished she could kiss, touch, run her hands softly along the afternoon stubble.  But instead, she was looking at the profile that had never been hers. His head was tilted against the side of another woman’s head; with his eyes closed, it was apparent that he was very much in love with Karen Filippelli.

Pam had seen that look before, in another lifetime.  She had seen that look in a darkened office, while she leaned against a solid oak desk, her hands having just clutched the rings of the telephone cord. She had seen that look again on the deck of a boat, far out on Lake Wallenpaupack while her hands were tucked deep into her winter coat.  She had seen that look in the kitchen at Dunder-Mifflin, as she’d prodded him, trying to make him lose a game of jinx.

It was now very apparent, very clear that she was no longer the owner of that look.