March 2, 2017

 

I’m falling asleep as I type this and it’s not even 6 PM in Milan. Not sleeping for two straight days will apparently do that to you. So this will be short, as intros should be.

The final flight was relatively uneventful other than befriending a nice Brooklyn lady, who has an international family to rival anyone’s. Think her name was Theresa, but names and I have never gotten along. The only other event was a vacuum. A lack of response from someone hit harder than it should have, but that’s a post for a less eventful day.

Being dropped in any country where you don’t speak the language is a culture shock. Everyone around me is speaking Italian, and here I am, just a foreigner trying to thank my waitress without inadvertently offending her. My apartment is overlooking a canal that runs through the city and is surrounded by bars that beckon when I’m not susceptible to pass out at any given moment. The streets adjoining said canal teem with tourist and bellasera alike. I could not have asked for a better spot for my immersive seclusion.

Most importantly, I ate my first meal in this most culinary of countries and it did not disappoint. The three waitresses and I had a bit of trouble communicating, but whatever I ended up pointing to was absolutely delicious (some type of pasta both stuffed and topped with prosciutto and these dope ass meatballs). However, the highlight of the meal was the only word that could not have been lost in translation: Negroni. Who knew a traditional Italian cocktail would be exponentially better in its country of origin?

Anyway, I’m going to go pass out on the back of that aperitif and the past 48 hours of sleeplessness building up to this view. Arrevegsdfougnwrtdici. Or whatever. Fucking Americans, man.

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