Dead Screen, Living Connection

The cobblestone street is buzzing with life.

Powerwalking locals gesture dramatically with one hand while clutching their phones with the other. They hold them horizontally, a good foot away from their faces, talking loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Don't they like their privacy around here? You wonder, chuckling to yourself. It looks like they're putting on a spectacle for each other, an improvised theatre that nobody seems to mind.

They just keep charging ahead.

Everyone is in such a hurry even at this hour. Everyone except you.

Debra will so want to see this!

You can't wait to tell your sister about the weird way Italians share their business with everyone willing to listen. You pull out your phone to make a video, but the camera won't turn on. In fact, the screen won't turn on.

You press the power button again and again, but nothing happens.

Did the battery die already?

You pull out the power bank and connect it, but nothing changes.

You gotta be kidding me! I just bought the damn thing!

You put your backpack down and rummage inside for the reserve phone. Even before you get ahold of its slick plastic case, you know something is wrong. There's something heavy thumbling around in your stomach. You try to push it aside. Think positive and all that.

Why are my hands sweating?

Then it hits you: the street. It is silent.

Hand still inside the backpack, you raise your eyes.

The locals stopped moving.

Like a summer storm over the fields at home. There's always a low hum preceding the first raindrops. That hum that tells you something big is coming. Then they fall. One. Two. Three. Silence. All.

You look around.

People go from quiet and motionless to screaming at nobody and at each other. They now gesture with both hands. Voices growing louder and louder. A crescendo of panic. Then, just like the summer storm, with one loud burst, it's suddenly over. Screaming gives way to laughing, crying, and everything in between.

They move closer together. You still can't understand what they're saying, but you can make out the emotions in their voices. They started with fear, anguish, and anger. But now? There's mostly some kind of understanding and compassion. A sense of unity.

One of them comes close to you and asks something. You cannot make heads or tails of it, and try to politely let them know that you don't speak their language. They try a few more times, slower and louder, before giving up and leaving.

The buzzing of the street restarts.

The sound is not very different. The visuals are. Slightly.

Powerwalking locals gesture dramatically with both hands while talking with one another. They walk in small packs now. But keep charging ahead.

It's hypnotic. You could watch it all day. Except you can't. You have no idea what's going on and when...

...if it will be over.

The bus ticket was on your phone. So was the hotel's address.

There is no more air in the street.

Your mouth is gasping, looking for a bite of air, but there just isn't any. All people are gone too. At least, you don't hear them anymore. All you can hear is an obnoxious ringing in your ears, and some loud knocking in your chest. Everything goes dark.

So dark.

Then light again.

You are squeezing grass.

In fact, you are seeing and smelling grass too. You don't remember getting here, and your head feels heavy, but something is oddly reassuring about lying on grass. Even in a foreign land, grass is still green. You roll on your back and let the earth comfort you into breathing again.

You will figure it out. People have been traveling long before smartphones were a thing. Heck! Your grandma travelled to Europe at some point. You can do this.

You focus your eyes again and see trees shake their leafy branches at you.

Of course: paper! They did it with paper!

A nugget of hope warms you up. You pull your phone out to look for a bookstore. The plastic brick mocks you with its dark screen. You put it back in your pocket with a sigh. You don't even know that they have a bookstore in such a tiny town. But you must have hope.

At first you try asking around, but locals seem to flee in terror when you approach them in English, so you resort to walking randomly and praying you stumble on the store yourself. After what feels like hours of mindless walking, you finally find it.

Blessing your lucky star, you head in.

You peruse the shelves and find a good selection of tourist guidebooks on the town and on the region. There is also a nice Italian-to-English dictionary and a few paper maps. Victorious, you gather the lot and bring them to the register. The friendly cashier rings them up, and the number 48,86 appears on the screen.

Must be euros.

You don't remember what that makes in dollars, but decide not to care and pull your phone out to pay.

You cross eyes with her. A deep chestnut brown, with a few flakes of green around her pupil. Full of pity.

You mutter some apology, and step back from the counter.

She says something in Italian. She sounds reassuring. A little worried too.

You take the books back where you found them and stare at their prices. Inside the cover of your phone, there is a hidden 20-euro flier. Your emergency stash. That's all the cash you have on you. Food, transport, books. Can it all fit in 20 euros?

That knocking in your chest again.

You resist the urge to pull out the calculator app on your phone, and try your best to do some crude mental math. Survival. You pick the dictionary and the map of the area, leave the rest.

Back at the register, you hand it all over to the lady. She packs them in a paper bag and hands you back a few coins. You have no clue if that will be enough to buy something to eat.

The thought makes your stomach grumble.

The sound bounces and rolls in the empty store. Your ears burn with embarrassment as the clerk chuckles and says something. She tries to talk slower and louder, but it doesn't help.

Why do they keep doing this?

You pull out the dictionary from the bag and flip through it. In your best Italian, you ask her if she knows where your hotel is. You fish out the map and hand it to her.

She bats her lashes and gestures for the book instead. She flips for a while before talking.

"There of it are three of Hotel Miramare. In what have you booked?" Her voice breaks with effort, as she fishes the words out of the dictionary one by one.

"Three?" You blurt out.

She crosses three spots on the map for you, then speaks again.

"No remember?"

"No..."

You could show her a picture if your stupid phone worked. But then again, you wouldn't need to if it did. Tears well in your eyes as you realize it is far from over. Then your stomach grumbles again.

"Have hunger?" She reads from the book again.

You nod.

She looks around for a moment, then calls for a colleague from the back of the store. They exchange a fast-paced conversation, filled with theatrical hand gestures. You start wondering if she forgot about you when she finally steps from behind the counter and gestures for you to follow her.

She leads you into the street. The dictionary is still in her hand, but she doesn't try to use it. Instead, she points and gestures when you need to turn, while talking in her language.

Many narrow and twisted streets later, she brings you to a shady-looking building. It occurs to you only now that you could be a target for anything.

"All good." She giggles. She must have read it on your face.

Inside, it looks like a hybrid between a restaurant and a kids' play area. Except there are no kids. It is packed with elderly people vivaciously playing cards and drinking wine.

She gestures for you to sit down before leaving for the counter.

The men start talking to you with a disturbing familiarity.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," you try. The lady left with your dictionary.

Realizing you are a tourist, more people gather around you, like watching an animal at the zoo. They keep talking in their language, with the usual slower and louder. You start to recognize it as a sign of care. They laugh a lot. Several have their nose tips red.

Someone started drinking early.

A plate of pasta with tomato sauce materializes in front of you, followed by a glass of wine and the friendly cashier.

You raise a handful of coins towards her. All you have left.

"You are guest!" She laughs, deflecting the money.

A few glasses of red and a lot of flipping through the dictionary later, you find out that her name is "Gianna" and this place is called a "circolino". And that it is customary for the local elderly to gather here every evening to eat and have fun together.

It's meant especially for those who don't have family living nearby.

Just like you.

"This night you sleep at Filippo, tomorrow morning he help you find your hotel," Gianna says before leaving.

One of the men firmly shakes your hand and, for the first time today, you know it's going to be ok.