Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [49]
I’d never trained on such a plane, and there was no time to learn. Since it was a single-seater, I’d be on my own, with no instructor or copilot. Several of my instructors and students looked at me as though to say, “Are you really sure you want to do that?” I talked to the operations officer, and he gave me a quick rundown on how to start the plane and how the controls worked. It seemed similar to the T-38 airplane that we flew from Houston, so I said, “Sure, I’d love to take it for a ride.” The rest of our group went back to town, but I stayed over and studied the plane’s manual a bit, then took it up for a whirl. Flying a plane like that without hours of instruction would never happen in the U.S. Air Force, so it was quite a treat to fly the G-91 with just an overview. The plane had a quickness that inspired me, so I pulled some precision maneuvers—and did so with glee.
Later that afternoon, I called the sultry Italian actress Gina Lollobrigida, and told her I was in town. I had met Gina during the world tour following Apollo 11, and she sounded delighted to hear from me. “Come on by,” she said, “I’ll be here this afternoon.” A staff driver and I began searching for her villa on Via Appia. We were about to give up when we saw several television vans parked in front of the entrance to a villa. Sure enough, the paparazzi told us that we were at the right house. I had changed out of my uniform before leaving the air base, and was wearing casual clothes, so I didn’t think anyone would recognize me.
“Drive up as close to the entrance as possible, and wait for me here,” I told the driver. As soon as I got out of the military staff car, one of the media people saw me and said, “Hey, I know you.” I kept walking and didn’t respond. “I know you!” the guy said again, following after me, his face beaming with the excitement of presumed recognition. “You’re Neil Armstrong!”
I smiled to myself and kept on walking.
Gina greeted me warmly and we spent a marvelous few hours getting reacquainted. I would have preferred to stay right there, but the U.S. embassy attaché had informed us that our hosts had planned an escorted tour of Roman night life. Our hosts meant well, but they hadn’t anticipated the press of paparazzi following us everywhere, blocking our path, trying to get pictures and statements from me. It had been only two years since I walked on the moon, so the interest level was still high, especially for photographers who specialized in capturing celebrity photos.
The next night during our visit, Italian general Giorgio Santucci invited me to join him for the premiere opening of the Number One Club in Rome. It was a celebrity-laden event, and Giorgio and I arrived early, before most of the stars showed up. In an attempt to remain inconspicuous, we sat down at a table off to the side of the room. The paparazzi proved particularly relentless. They were far more than annoying; they were downright obnoxious. Before long, a photographer recognized me, then another; soon we were surrounded by paparazzi. Giorgio looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, Buzz, but I think it is time to leave.”
We got up and headed toward the door, when a photographer jumped in front of me, purposely blocking the way. I pushed him aside and he tumbled backward onto the floor. Giorgio and I elbowed our way out of the building; I was careful not to spill my Scotch on the rocks that I carried along with me. Outside, the paparazzi continued to swarm around us until we finally made our way down the street to the car. Giorgio jumped in the driver’s side and I hopped in the passenger’s side, and he revved the engine. One overly zealous reporter planted himself in front of our car, refusing to budge while snapping photos of me through the windshield.