Lunch in the City @ 2006
So every day I'm sitting on the park bench, eating my sandwich, drinking my Chinò--the sandwich changes with my mood, but is usually accompanied by a tiny bottle of chinotto soda. I used to pretend to live in England but right now I pretend to live in Italy. Both are blended into my heritage, though I don't claim to be anything other than wholly American.
People don't know what that means. They think it means sitcoms, bad food, loud brash humor, inconsiderate politics. But of course, to be American is to be literally anything and everything, and that's why people have always come here. And here, I can be this, but pretend to be that, quite easily, if I want to. Mostly, I'd rather not bother. I am happily defined by a lack of definition.
Today's sandwich was goat cheese, red peppers, and smashed olives. It reminded me, for some crazy reason, of when I was a kid, and I would eat plain tuna on bread with no accompaniment. I thought it was the perfect sandwich. What I didn't realize was that the oil the tuna was packed in is what made it perfect. Until one day--I was old enough to do some of the shopping by then--I noticed that all the tuna cans said they were now packed in soybean oil. I don't know what the other non-soybean oil was, but it tasted good on bread. Soybean oil does not. So ever after that, I had to buy tuna packed in spring water, instead, and that isn't any good on bread unless you mix other stuff into it. Which reduces the pleasure for me, considerably. I loved opening the can of tuna, spreading some on bread, and eating. That was simple heaven.
Now I don't bother with tuna anymore unless it's served to me raw, on a plate at a restaurant. But my sandwiches are still simple. If I can just smash some between pieces of chewy, tasty bread, it's good for a sandwich. If it requires chopping and stirring and seasoning, forget it. That's not a sandwich, that's dinner.
Anyway. This guy, one of the blue tooth ones, he walks through the park every afternoon just about the time I've finished the sandwich and am leaning back a bit, sipping on my soda, or blowing across the top of the bottle to make it whistle, and he talks, and gesticulates, and takes these sort of large stomping, pacing steps back and forth in front of the big Abraham Lincoln statue. I used to sit on the bench right underneath it, but now I sit on the other side of the walkway, for a better view. He's very enjoyable to watch, despite the crazy.
This reminds me of 10th grade, when there was an exchange student from the Netherlands at my school, and I would follow him down the hall every day after chemistry, until he disappeared into his next classroom, and I had to continue on to mine. He was blond, which isn't really my thing, but had this perfect figure, the coolest European jeans, and, kind of remarkably, it seemed, clogs. I had never seen a guy wear clogs, but they looked so great with those jeans, and inspired the way he sassed his sexy foreign self along the corridor, just owning his space. I never once spoke with him, but remain a fan to this day. I'm a fan of clogs anyway. I'm confused when they go out of style now and then, because they just seem like a staple of life, as far as I'm concerned. Too bad more men can't pull off the look of them. Sadly, the ones who seem able to aren't generally interested in my admiration of them, since they tend to be looking for matching equipment, rather than the complementary variety.
So okay, no, he's not wearing clogs with that suit, but oh, the suit. I want to kiss his tailor on both cheeks. The drape of the trousers, the way the cuff caresses the top of his shoes, the sharp cuffs, the crisp shoulders and lapels, I mean, I don't know what he looks like underneath it all, but the illusion it creates is kinda magical; class and sensuality and confidence married together seamlessly.
Except, man, the guy never shuts up.
People don't know what that means. They think it means sitcoms, bad food, loud brash humor, inconsiderate politics. But of course, to be American is to be literally anything and everything, and that's why people have always come here. And here, I can be this, but pretend to be that, quite easily, if I want to. Mostly, I'd rather not bother. I am happily defined by a lack of definition.
Today's sandwich was goat cheese, red peppers, and smashed olives. It reminded me, for some crazy reason, of when I was a kid, and I would eat plain tuna on bread with no accompaniment. I thought it was the perfect sandwich. What I didn't realize was that the oil the tuna was packed in is what made it perfect. Until one day--I was old enough to do some of the shopping by then--I noticed that all the tuna cans said they were now packed in soybean oil. I don't know what the other non-soybean oil was, but it tasted good on bread. Soybean oil does not. So ever after that, I had to buy tuna packed in spring water, instead, and that isn't any good on bread unless you mix other stuff into it. Which reduces the pleasure for me, considerably. I loved opening the can of tuna, spreading some on bread, and eating. That was simple heaven.
Now I don't bother with tuna anymore unless it's served to me raw, on a plate at a restaurant. But my sandwiches are still simple. If I can just smash some between pieces of chewy, tasty bread, it's good for a sandwich. If it requires chopping and stirring and seasoning, forget it. That's not a sandwich, that's dinner.
Anyway. This guy, one of the blue tooth ones, he walks through the park every afternoon just about the time I've finished the sandwich and am leaning back a bit, sipping on my soda, or blowing across the top of the bottle to make it whistle, and he talks, and gesticulates, and takes these sort of large stomping, pacing steps back and forth in front of the big Abraham Lincoln statue. I used to sit on the bench right underneath it, but now I sit on the other side of the walkway, for a better view. He's very enjoyable to watch, despite the crazy.
This reminds me of 10th grade, when there was an exchange student from the Netherlands at my school, and I would follow him down the hall every day after chemistry, until he disappeared into his next classroom, and I had to continue on to mine. He was blond, which isn't really my thing, but had this perfect figure, the coolest European jeans, and, kind of remarkably, it seemed, clogs. I had never seen a guy wear clogs, but they looked so great with those jeans, and inspired the way he sassed his sexy foreign self along the corridor, just owning his space. I never once spoke with him, but remain a fan to this day. I'm a fan of clogs anyway. I'm confused when they go out of style now and then, because they just seem like a staple of life, as far as I'm concerned. Too bad more men can't pull off the look of them. Sadly, the ones who seem able to aren't generally interested in my admiration of them, since they tend to be looking for matching equipment, rather than the complementary variety.
So okay, no, he's not wearing clogs with that suit, but oh, the suit. I want to kiss his tailor on both cheeks. The drape of the trousers, the way the cuff caresses the top of his shoes, the sharp cuffs, the crisp shoulders and lapels, I mean, I don't know what he looks like underneath it all, but the illusion it creates is kinda magical; class and sensuality and confidence married together seamlessly.
Except, man, the guy never shuts up.