Another day, another ambulatory sunrise. This whole running while it’s still dark thing is really starting to inflate my sense of accomplishment for the day. By the time I get back to the apartment I feel like everything else is lagniappe since at least one productive thing can be checked off. So far this phenomenon hasn’t hindered any activity, but if I know myself, it definitely will in the near future.
After going to my café and getting the usual cappuccino and cornetto (happy, asshole?), I decided that I was going to test the limits of my self-restraint. Not being a millionaire fucking blows. I strolled around the fashion district for a solid hour and a half entering a total of zero stores. The suited doormen stare vacantly out of the front windows, daring any common folk to try to enter. However, I’m definitely dressing better tomorrow and Machirian Candidate-ing my ass into Brioni. Will update.
Slowly realizing the box that my bank account has confined me to, I dejectedly walked to a nearby park (yay, poor people). The park was gorgeous and was surrounded and inundated by ornate, ancient buildings that compare to nothing I’ve ever seen before. These, unfortunately, attract tourists on whom I’ve made my views very clear. But allow me my soapbox one more time. Anyone who owns a selfie stick is my least favorite person to ever live. That includes Hitler. If you have a selfie stick, I hope you fall on it, impale your spleen, and die a slow, painful death as you bleed out. You are not important or attractive enough to be involved in every picture you take. If you were, people would be paying you for pictures. I have an urge every time I see one of these abominations to beat its owner over the head with it. I had far too many of those urges today, but I managed to avoid prison.
I made it back to my apartment after walking approximately infinite miles (kilometers. Whatever, Europe). I went on my last Milanese grocery run and stepped up my Tuscan wine game all the way up to 6 Euros. I’m a baller, what can I say? I downed two glasses, ate a prosciutto, focaccia, and pecorino sandwich, and set out to find a new bar (Pinch will happen again tomorrow, don’t you worry loyal reader). I found a place called Felix, and the only reason I set foot inside was because I thought the name was Helix. Huge difference. I’m superficial and I don’t apologize for it.
Regardless of nomenclature, I ordered an old fashioned made with both whiskey and mezcal. Once again, Italian bars absolutely dominated an American classic, as this was one of the best I’ve ever had. It was smoky, and semi-sweet but also had a clear color that I still don’t fully understand. The bartender spoke fluent English and expressed a desire to visit New Orleans, which I wholeheartedly endorsed. The aperitivos (spelling courtesy of the aforementioned asshole) were simple but good and the music was on point. I’m curious as to why American music is the default for every bar I’ve been in, but I’m not complaining. I was welcomed by “Have You Ever Heard the Rain” and ushered out of the door by back-to-back Johnny Cash songs. However, the best part of my Felix (still think Helix is a much better name) experience was the immediate joy I felt when I noticed a bottle of Tabasco on every table. Home follows you everywhere.
Rain cut the night short as I refuse to bring/buy/own/use an umbrella. Hopefully one night soon I’ll have an interesting story to put on here, but in the meantime I’m just going to luxuriate in the fact that bars give out free food while playing dope ass music that I can understand. The preachy and philosophical post I promised yesterday will eventually happen, but I’m going to have to be much less sober for it to be good. May that day come sooner than later…..