I left at 11am both sleep and bus ticket deprived. The bus ticket wouldn’t even matter. It was finally time to see Villa Tiberius, who knows when I’d be back? I’ve been to Rome three times, and each time I’ve said “this is it” and It never was.

I learned about Villa Tiberius in a Hellenistic art and architecture course in college. It’s a cave. I signed up for the course only because it was a degree requirement and it seemed easier and somehow more useful than learning ancient Greek a semester before I graduated. The professor was harsh and I got a D on my first exam because she couldn’t read my handwriting. Fair enough. She was one of the best professors I ever had – taking time off in the middle of the semester to manage her archaeological dig site in Italy. I loved that class. It’s been almost seven years now. My desire to see Villa Tiberius is solely because of a PowerPoint presentation I saw when I was 21 that I only vaguely remember. If you ask me about it now, all I can tell you is “it’s a cool cave that used to have art in it.”

I spent about an hour wandering around Termini, almost getting on the metro and going somewhere else. The instructions about how to get there were unclear. According to an ancient TripAdvisors comment; I needed two train tickets and four bus tickets. I couldn’t figure out where to get the correct bus ticket. I looked online and was told to go to any tabacchi shop. So I went to any tabacchi shop. The girl at the counter didn’t understand the type of ticket I was looking for. The next one didn’t have any. I gave up. I left the Termini station with two train tickets, two coffees, pre-sliced pineapple, a sandwich, a pear and chocolate pastry, a new copy of Sula, and no bus tickets.

To get to Sperlonga from Rome you need to take the train for one hour and a half; seven stops to Monte San Biagio. Upon arrival, I’d go to the bus stop across the street and take it to Terracina. It would take another hour. From Terracina, it would only be a few stops to get to Sperlonga, and then a long walk to Villa Tiberius. I was later told that it shouldn’t have been so complicated, but that it could’ve been because it was a Sunday, and anyway – who can trust a bus?

I read half of Sula on the train; miraculously staying awake despite sleeping for only three hours that night and after drinking a questionable amount of tequila shots.

The train pulled up to Monte San Biagio. I tripped leaving my seat, my prescription sunglasses making the gray steps blend into the gray train floor. There was no time for twisted ankles. According to Google, I had exactly ten minutes to make it from the train station to the bus. I used five of those minutes to find the bathroom, paying one euro for entry. I swear as I put the money in the slot that I saw a bus leaving. But I still had time. It couldn’t have been mine.

I cross the street facing the backdrop of deep green mountains. Orange and peach houses line the sides all the way up. The town is built like they didn’t realize they could use the flat ground. All that stands before me on the other side of the street is an abandoned infomat and a dilapidated wooden building that looks better suited for a Western than a small town in Italy. There are no cars in the lot. A preschool sits at the base of the large hill or small mountain. White lines indicating the past and (possible) future presence of buses in faded paint are barely visible beneath the dirt and gravel on the pavement. There's a bench with a covering next to this section of the parking lot that looks like it could be a bus stop, but it’s in the wrong spot.

I stood on the sidewalk near the infomat and checked Google Maps again. The bus is delayed. Thirty minutes. Initially, I appreciated the delay. I didn’t have bus tickets and assumed that buying them would be straightforward. I went back to the train station for this. There was a little cafe that looked similar to a tabacchi but wasn’t advertised as one. It’s closed. There is nothing else nearby; only the mountains, the abandoned infomat, the train station, and an empty parking lot moonlighting as a bus station. I was willing to risk a fine. It seemed like I had no other options, anyway.

I sat on the bench. A thirty minute delay turns into an hour. I kept looking around the corner to see if any buses would turn the corner, but I hardly even saw a car. The only person I saw was a man in red dragging something into the forest beyond the preschool. After another 15 minutes, I walk to stand before the train station. There’s no one except a family loading heavy black suitcases into a car and driving away. It’s around three o’clock now. The main road separating me and the train station is busy considering how quiet the bus station was. I wondered how much it would cost to get a taxi. I wondered if it was even possible.

After the second hour, I walk back towards the bench. I stand in the center of the parking lot and eat a dry and thick tuna sandwich. The iced coffee I bought is hot and melted, soaking the pages of Sula in my bag. The three hours of sleep is starting to hit me. I sit down on the bench again and contemplate giving up.

Though the area near the parking lot showed more signs of being a bus stop, Google maps insisted that the infomat was the true location of the bus stop. I walked over there once again, because what else did I have to do, anyway? I wasn’t ready to accept defeat and go back to Rome. I hoped my two hours of waiting would’ve been for something.

I’d been standing there for only a minute when a small woman holding a chihuahua materialized before me. She’d just run across the street. She said something to me in Italian. I didn’t understand, but I was so relieved that I was no longer the only person on the entire planet. I told her I’d pull out the translator. She asked me if I was waiting for the bus to Terracina. A lucky coincidence. I told her yes. She asked more for an update on the bus — did I know where it was, did I know when it would arrive? Her big glasses were too large for her face. I was taller than her.

I’d win in a fight.

We established that we both didn’t know where the bus was. She told me through the translator that it was because it was a Sunday. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me that upfront. She asked me why I wanted to go to Terracina. I explained that I didn't – it was only a stop on my way to Sperlonga.

Her eyes widened. Something about her energy felt off, but maybe my exhaustion was influencing my perception of our interaction. She reached for my phone. From Italian to English, the message read: “My fiance can drive you from Terracina to Sperlonga.” Her face was eager. I’d been wondering whether or not it would be a good idea to hitchhike instead of taking the bus. This was my chance. I’ve always wanted a travel story like this. But I hesitated. It seemed like too much to offer a stranger. I refocused my gaze on the tall grass beyond the bus stop. My complacency was momentarily stronger than my sense of survival and I let out a hesitant “oh sure.” She explained that she was calling him on her phone.

He didn’t pick up, but it became too real anyway. Maybe people who listened to true crime podcasts were actually at an advantage. I could’ve been someone’s new favorite murder. I’d die wearing a Finlandia vodka t-shirt that used to belong to someone’s grandpa and dusty Tevas. I'd have to wear this eternally in a ghostly afterlife. My fanny pack would be stolen, emptied, and dumped on the side of the road. It would be used as evidence.

The realization made me withdraw my acceptance. It was already 4:00 pm anyway, so what’s the point? Villa Tiberius would close at 7:00 pm. By the time I would arrive, I would only have about an hour to explore. I would not be able to explore at all if I were kidnapped and dead in the trunk of some car going down the highway by the coast of Italy.

My no lead to more insistence. Really, it’s not a problem at all. Why would she be so eager to help a tourist by the side of the road? Am I the one being weird about this? Somehow my no turned into another suggestion: I could stay with her grandmother in Sperlonga. An interesting coincidence.

It’s okay to be rude in these situations. But how could I be rude to a tiny woman with a tiny dog?

I used time as my excuse. By this point, it was true. I said I’d go to Naples instead. Through the translator I was told: “But there’s parades and riots going on there.” She says I should go to Sperlonga. She can help. I'm tired.

Fine. I would go back to Rome.

With my coffee soaked copy of Sula and an overwhelming feeling of failure; I used my ticket back to Rome. I saw her again exactly two days later: running through Termini without her chihuahua. I wonder if I could’ve made it had I trusted her. The road to Sperlonga is paved with good intentions, but it doesn’t matter if there’s no bus and a chance of murder. I’ll get there someday.