Other students insisted that all three of them had eating disorders. They ran along the Arno River religiously every evening right before dark. They did seem to subsist on bottled water and bulk candy. And McDonald's ice cream cones. I didn't know if this really proved they were ill or if it simply indicated that they were a little nutritionally stupid. Either way, not my business. The semester already had enough problems.
What I do remember is that they had the weirdest, cutest laughs. And the little blond one would show up sleep deprived, dressed in a white skull cap with a little rainbow logo on it and a filthy hoodie. She'd have fixative and Pantone ink all over her hands on the mornings we had an assignment due. Honey, you look homeless! She'd snort and wouldn't stop her hysterical laughter for the next 45 minutes. It was after one of these distracted, slap happy deadline and critique sessions that I walked with them (the alleged eating disorder victims) to McDonald's for their favorite fix.
And I have to admit it- a taste of home is very comforting, indeed. Especially when you're in culture shock and under tremendous pressure to be creative while carrying a workload comparable to that of architecture or med school students. Even if that taste is the watery, sweet, non-dairy flavor of McD's "ice cream" in a cake cone. So, for five minutes or so, we stood by a counter alongside a front window and ate those cones in cozy silence. It's gonna be okay. You can have fries to go, if you need more.
And then I turned and looked outside. Mistake. Hey, self. Quick memo to me: never again look outside while licking an ice cream cone in Italy. When we were finished, so was he. Every single damn time we went. Like clockwork. It took the shine off the apple, lemme tell you.
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GROSS! damned italians, kick em in the stones and run every time.
RépondreSupprimeryou can't mean the, whatsa, what do you mean? No, don't tell me.
RépondreSupprimerWould that be slapping the salami or pounding the prosciutto? Either way, most men are pigs the worl' round.
RépondreSupprimerTRUE CONFESSIONS: You know how kittens will hide under furniture and then jump out and claw the bejeezus out of your ankle/ foot just for fun, I mean practice? Well, I've been reading all these books on writing and filmmaking recently and I was trying to use the "get into the scene late and get out early" or "less info from the creator leaves more room for the audience's imagination" principles. Yeah. And I know it sounded bad. But, actually, he was just a wealthy, spiffily dressed businessman who timed a little walk every day from his office to the sidewalk by the McDonald's so he could stare at American girls licking things. (Simple pleasures.) And now you'll never trust me again. BTW, we're out of toilet paper.
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RépondreSupprimerThanks, Joel. I like dem dere vignettes on your blog, too. When I grow up, I'm going to write more vignettes. Yes, sir.
RépondreSupprimerWeeeeeeelllllll, when I was waiting for a bus, late at night in southern France, there was an incident with a pigman and his salami. He was across the street from us two 'merican girls making an attempt to . ... oof. the trauma. (didn't want to leave you hanging, LydoLyd)
RépondreSupprimerWell, you may not be honest but at least you're popular... one out of two ain't bad.
RépondreSupprimerI thought it was very nice.
RépondreSupprimerOf course you thought it was nice, McAdams, you suck-up... anyway, I not only liked the story, but after reading the explanation, I liked the wealthy italian guy. I liked him lots....mmmmm...American girls licking things....
RépondreSupprimerI should NOT be charmed by all this...
RépondreSupprimerCan I buy you an ice cream?
RépondreSupprimerDidn't think anybody hung out around here anymore. And sure you can, if you come to visit with Msr. McA. But I warn you, reality likes ice cream even better than I do. (Or maybe it's my writing voice you're making the offer to and I'm just getting in the way. That's too complicated for me to sort out.) Thanks, though. Nice to know somebody can't forget.
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