The last of a long, liquidous venture — a secluded pizzeria, popular among the tourists, loners like myself, with "very strong" French cigarettes, families, odd groupings of overweight patrons, and a young pair with a wide-eyed son, like father. Somewhat bothered by the dwindling daylight, a reminder of the coming conclusion to my week-long Italian excursion, I gobbled down a pepperoni and olive pizza, desperately trying to take my time. There was to be little to do afterward, before the morning bus would transport me and other weary travelers to the airport, a "short 10 minutes away". I had been told I would stay in Milan, but this was Malpensa — no city, to be sure. A liter, then another liter of vino rosa washed down the cheese and other ingredients as I sat, writing, hoping for fleeting accompaniment. Perhaps the lone English-speaking waitress — not pretty, but sweet. Or, another like myself, with a smoke to spare. I don't — or didn't — smoke, but Europe, the jigsaw of hoped-for romance, plays tricks on a man's dos and don'ts. Plus, the wine, more fit for two or four, was beginning to roll around in my... I really craved hashish.
One might wonder how this restaurant got so packed, but the answer is simple: the hotel, or post-modern failure in over-exuberant simplicity, said so, and so they flocked, as I had. But what next? With nothing but hows left, beyond the mischievously curious youngster, that son of the father, I wondered. I drank. "I'll leave when the drink's been drunk," I tell myself, aloud. Yes, back to the timid, antiseptic hotel, at 80 euros an evening. Damn Italian television. Damn mini-bar. Damn last night in this country worth inexplicably more than a seven-day stay. What about Sicily? La Cosa Nostra? I will leave, regretfully stuck with only my assumptions, having seen Florence, I believe, but mere meager bits of Milan and nada mas. Then back to work. The hours. The computer screen. Typing. Tendinitis. Tormented wrists and sad digits.
Can I escape? The age-old question had flittered about my feeble mind before, but where would I go? How would I survive? I envied the smiling, nearly cackling, jabbering young pretty boys manning the stands at the Florenzian mercado. Motherfuckers, with your freedom. I, a descendent of Murder Inc., have but a few euros, one final glass of wine, and a weighty buzz. At least there's sloop, and a loving pillow. Then, family, back in the states. Stress. Confusion. Labor, and a longing for love. Where is MY Italiania princesa? Like the David to Michelangelo... but female, without the foreskin.
Europe, land of love, continent of compassion, home of Switzerland... the bloody neutral!? Too much liquid. I must relieve myself of burden. And perhaps this place is not a hole in the wall after all. Perhaps "hole in the floor" would be more apropos, as I was urinating into a hollowed out circle in the bathroom tile. Another, and final, French cigarette, and the last bit of wine. I was destined for what could have been my final resting place...
Write with a lit cigarette, close to setting these superfluous words aflame. Graci. Gracias. I had wished the whole darn trip was in Espanol. At least I would have conversed in a native tongue. I just speak English.
What if I were in Ecuador? Or, would that war-torn tiny Sud Americano pais not have had a restorante with a guest list adorned with big misshapen harts... And I walk off into the woods.
