(no subject)
Sunday, I woke up with a great longing for a real breakfast, since the Italians don't really believe in breakfast. I had visions in my head of an omelette with tomatoes mushrooms and swiss, hashbrowns, a biscuit with butter and jam, fresh squeezed orange juice and hot chocolate. Giampaolo is not a morning person, he sleeps right up until he absolutely must leave for work, whether that be seven am or noon, so I went downstairs to the kitchen to fix myself something from the bare stores that are left. My beautiful vision of breakfast was not to be. I made myself an omelette with one egg, diced tomato and some parmesan. No toast, as there was no bread, no hashbrowns, as they do not exist here, no orange juice, no biscuit, no jam, no hot chocolate. Sigh. I felt so homesick then. I wanted to be sitting at Shakabrah, or the Harvester, or the Hob Nob, little places that aren't remarkably attractive, interesting or good, but precious to me because I know them, because I worked at the Harvester, because Virginia and I escaped to the HobNob one morning for breakfast just to get out, because I used to meet Natalie for breakfast at Shakabrah.
Tacoma isn't a remarkable city. It is often dirty, often ugly, it has factories marring Commencement Bay, and the occasional bad smell from the pulp mill, a downtown the size of my thumbnail, and a terribly obvious division between the North and South ends, a visible line drawn between the rich and poor. But, at the same time, there are many places in Tacoma that feel beautiful to me because I know them, because I love them.
Sunday after work, Giampaolo drove me back to Perugia, and it was still early, only midnight, so I said, "Let's go out for a drink" and we went to Contrapunto, the student hangout, I got a limoncello and some water, and he got a limonata. We talked about his work a lot, and he said he was tired, sick of it, and I said, "The problem is that you don't have a single full day off, when you don't go to work at all."
"No," he said, "I don't have it every week, but I do get to take off a day of work now and then."
"But," I said, "Since I've been here, a month and a half, you haven't had a single day when you haven't gone in to work at all."
"Yes I have," he said. "The week before last, I took off Wednesday."
And then it was like there was a stone in my chest, I thought I might cry, because he hadn't come to see me that day when he had no work. I was in Perugia alone, and he had stayed in San Terenziano.
But, I hate being stupid and emotional and I don't like the idea of being resentful, so I laughed at him and playfully slapped his face.
"You silly boy," I said, "You didn't even tell me."
"Yea," he said, "I stayed at home and ordered a pizza, and watched TV almost all day."
All the time I'm weighing in my head whether these are things I could live with for the rest of my life. Could I stand being usurped by pizza and tv? Could I stand no going out for breakfast together in the mornings?
Later that night we fucked for hours and I afterwards I felt like I could not stand to leave him behind again, because the last two trips to the airport were agonizing, and a third would be even worse, I think. But I don't know.
Tacoma isn't a remarkable city. It is often dirty, often ugly, it has factories marring Commencement Bay, and the occasional bad smell from the pulp mill, a downtown the size of my thumbnail, and a terribly obvious division between the North and South ends, a visible line drawn between the rich and poor. But, at the same time, there are many places in Tacoma that feel beautiful to me because I know them, because I love them.
Sunday after work, Giampaolo drove me back to Perugia, and it was still early, only midnight, so I said, "Let's go out for a drink" and we went to Contrapunto, the student hangout, I got a limoncello and some water, and he got a limonata. We talked about his work a lot, and he said he was tired, sick of it, and I said, "The problem is that you don't have a single full day off, when you don't go to work at all."
"No," he said, "I don't have it every week, but I do get to take off a day of work now and then."
"But," I said, "Since I've been here, a month and a half, you haven't had a single day when you haven't gone in to work at all."
"Yes I have," he said. "The week before last, I took off Wednesday."
And then it was like there was a stone in my chest, I thought I might cry, because he hadn't come to see me that day when he had no work. I was in Perugia alone, and he had stayed in San Terenziano.
But, I hate being stupid and emotional and I don't like the idea of being resentful, so I laughed at him and playfully slapped his face.
"You silly boy," I said, "You didn't even tell me."
"Yea," he said, "I stayed at home and ordered a pizza, and watched TV almost all day."
All the time I'm weighing in my head whether these are things I could live with for the rest of my life. Could I stand being usurped by pizza and tv? Could I stand no going out for breakfast together in the mornings?
Later that night we fucked for hours and I afterwards I felt like I could not stand to leave him behind again, because the last two trips to the airport were agonizing, and a third would be even worse, I think. But I don't know.