Innocently enough, the drunk from room 47 had kicked down the door of room 49 – my room - in Como at The Villa Serbelloni. The Villa security had, innocently enough, filed a report with the Polizia Provinciale. The investigating officers had, innocently enough, combed through my room and made their best guess at what could be any travesty against me on the off-chance the his drunken discretion was more than just an intoxicated and innocent intrusion. The Villa had attempted to contact me as I was out enjoying the lazy, breezy day shopping on the cobblestone streets of Como, but my phone – the number on file with The Villa – was not in service. It wasn’t until I returned after a full-day’s worth of everything Como had to offer that I became aware of any crime that may have been committed against me.
As I entered the lobby, my arms full of beautiful and lavish Italian finds, I was summoned to the front desk. The clerk, obviously embarrassed and possibly nervous, apologized for the inconvenience of the news she had to bear. My room had been broken into. “The Polizia have been notified, and they need to speak with you as soon as it is convenient,” she shakily spoke English with an endearing Italian accent.
“Grazie Tanto,” I effortlessly spoke with a smile and made way to my room.
As I traveled in the elevator, I mentally made note of all the business I would need to take care of as soon as I got to my room but before I visited with the investigators. If my room’s security had been breached, I would need to secure funds and close accounts; I would need to plan the rest of my trip accordingly. This would just be a little hiccup in my own personal Italian renaissance.
Quickly, I accessed my account and transferred funds – I cancelled my cards and planned for new ways to secure my monies. I was able to swiftly take care of business, pack my items, and request a room on the next leg of my journey in Brescia. The room – the most luxurious I had ever stayed in – required $777 of my American money. I sighed happily. In my life, money was no object. Before leaving my room, I decided I had time enough for a shower.
I exited the bathroom with a luscious white towel wrapped around my body and made a mental note to purchase a few of the towels for myself. I was quickly becoming accustomed to the finer things that could be found in Italy.
I was startled to find the two men standing in my room. I hadn’t realized how much my nerves were raw following the news of the break-in, and I screamed.
“Rebecca Blume?” the taller of the two asked.
“And who are you?” I countered with my hands holding tight to the top of the towel, grossly aware of my heart beating not only in my chest, but also my head and my neck and my ears and every last inch of my body.
“Investigatore Giglio. This is Investigatore DiNardo,” the tall Italian said, “You are to come with us until the Interpol arrives.”
My body began to shake with anxiety. While my accounts were rich, my bravados were bankrupt.
“Rebecca Blume, you are under arrest for fraud and unlawful accumulation of monies over international lines.” I hung my head and wept – they had finally caught up to me.