T-Minus (or) European Tour
I am sitting at my desk, and I just opened a soda. I love that sound - that soda sound, when the can first opens. Craack. Hiissss... Bubbles of sparkling carbonation fizzle up out of the cold silver mouth, the smooth metal of the can slick and chilly under my fingers.
The sound of productivity. The sound of refreshment. The process of slowly pickling my internal organs in aspartame. My mouth waters like Pavlov's dog - a daily ritual rendered yet more perfect, yet more sublime, by the advent of the first summer heat.
At this time next week I will be stuffing clothes into a bag, debating over whether to take both pairs of running shoes or just one, trying to figure out which underwear will be easiest to handwash in an Italian sink. I will be checking in for my flight, fumbling frantically for my passport again and again, coiling chargers and adapters like sleeping snakes, organizing my life in little Ziploc sacks.
A few hours from this time next week I will be over the Atlantic, saying a two-month goodbye to Harvard Square, my desk, my theaters, my sun-drenched apartment with its unreliable plumbing and its spooky basement. I will be in Lazio, and then in Tuscany, feeling my tongue move in patterns familiar and alien as I struggle to think and thrive in a second language.
Phrases I'm sure I'll need to learn soon:
"Put down that hammer."
"No, no, put it to the left."
"Stage left."
"Stage right."
"Help! I am trapped under this piece of scenery."
And, that Mediterranean anthem...
"We can always finish tomorrow."
The sound of productivity. The sound of refreshment. The process of slowly pickling my internal organs in aspartame. My mouth waters like Pavlov's dog - a daily ritual rendered yet more perfect, yet more sublime, by the advent of the first summer heat.
At this time next week I will be stuffing clothes into a bag, debating over whether to take both pairs of running shoes or just one, trying to figure out which underwear will be easiest to handwash in an Italian sink. I will be checking in for my flight, fumbling frantically for my passport again and again, coiling chargers and adapters like sleeping snakes, organizing my life in little Ziploc sacks.
A few hours from this time next week I will be over the Atlantic, saying a two-month goodbye to Harvard Square, my desk, my theaters, my sun-drenched apartment with its unreliable plumbing and its spooky basement. I will be in Lazio, and then in Tuscany, feeling my tongue move in patterns familiar and alien as I struggle to think and thrive in a second language.
Phrases I'm sure I'll need to learn soon:
"Put down that hammer."
"No, no, put it to the left."
"Stage left."
"Stage right."
"Help! I am trapped under this piece of scenery."
And, that Mediterranean anthem...
"We can always finish tomorrow."