We flew to Italy out of New York a few days ago. The approximately 135-mile drive from Wilmington, Delaware to NYC took two hours. The last ten miles of New York traffic lasted three.
Half-an-hour worth of NYC traffic was within olfactory range of a truckload of spilled chicken that had obviously been rotting in the street for awhile. As Bryan said, only in New York does a pile of raw meat remain in the road long enough to make you dry heave as you pass.
The rental car, oddly, was infested with spiders. I realize this sounds like a detail from a drug-induced haze, but I have the bites to prove it. What’s more, my attempts to procure drugs in Keller, Virginia were surprisingly fruitless.
We’re in Milan now for the Adaptive Path Workshop. According to my guidebook, Italian men should have leapt at me as I got off the plane and refused to stop grabbing at my ass until I batted at them with rolled newspapers. I dutifully learned the suggested phrases to ward off unwanted advances:
At the cafe, where I’d like to read as I sip my wine, “Mi lasci en pace, per favore.” (Please leave me alone, in peace.)
On the train, where someone is bound to grope me, a loud, “Que schifo!” (How disgusting!)
And the charmingly all-purpose, “Adesso, basta!” (Enough already, buck-o.)
Sadly, I’ve yet to have a single Milanese man make an inappropriate advance. What’s more, all of them dress better than me. Italy is doing nothing for my self-esteem.