Chacho the Author 325that tens of thousands of American motorists die on the
roads every year.
When I made up my mind to join them, I was given an
appointment in Rome at the end of November that year.
I was told to go to Castel Saint Angelo on a Saturday
afternoon, to carry an umbrella and wear a red carnation
in my lapel. Someone would contact me.
As I waited for my contact to arrive at the designated
location, a girl stopped, asking for directions. I gave them
to her. She listened, then asked me to cross the bridge
and go to a sidewalk cafe where I would be meeting a
man wearing a hat and a blue and white coat.
He was a young fellow, very pleasant and well
educated. He told me he was working as an international
public relations man for a major American organization
in Rome.
I imagined a job interview like this was the beginning
of a whole new adventurous career for someone like me.
As I was a rambunctious young man, always in search of
a new adventure, I accepted the job on the spot, without
thinking about what I was getting myself into. We went
to the "84 Club" to drink a toast to my future.
When we said goodby that evening, he made me
memorize an address and phone number in New York
City, where I would be reporting sometime around the
second week of January, 1969. That was the first time I
heard the name Harold Barton. He was the man I wa s to
report to during and after my training.
I felt a lot better about the work when the young man
assured me that "in our work we don't get killed; we're
not CIA agents. We just compile journalistic facts,
calling 'em as we see 'em."
I went to pick up my car, which was pa rked some
where near Piazza di Spagna. I took a cab from Via
Venetto, asking the driver to take me there.