Journey into the Renaissance, Part II

Another attempt at travel writing, late posting.

I have been in this fascinating city for over a month now and I am able find my way around much quicker than that first night, no map needed. The Arno River I cross on my way to class each morning has not lost its charm. Nor have the views of the Ponte Vecchio, the picturesque side streets, or the cappuccino and nutella croissant I regularly have for breakfast. Leaving my routinely visited morning café, I place my empty cup and plate on the counter and wave “grazie!” to the barista. Not having class for the rest of the day, I decide to take a walk over to the Piazza della Signoria. Continue reading

An American Dream

Athens, 1939

I was drinking my morning coffee on the terrace, same as I do every morning, with the roar of car horns and ambulances sweeping through the streets below my feet. The buzz of this city pairs nicely with my mood: anxious, restless, and excited. Athens never skips a beat, not even then in 1939 when war is beating down Greece’s door. I lift the welcome mat behind my chair, the place I stash my father’s finest cigars, and light one up before the big journey. Inhaling the smoke from that flavorful montecristo, I remember thinking about giving them back to him before I take off, but then he’d realize I took them, and saying goodbye would have been much more burdensome.

I toss the ashes out from the tray over the railing and make my way back inside, the cigar tucked neatly inside my pocket. Mother is packing away everything I don’t need, the routine of her hands and feet masking the worry on her face.

“Ma.” I wait for her to stop folding my socks, socks I probably won’t need. “Ma, please stop. It’s almost seven, I have to get going.”

She doesn’t stop. Instead, she continues to fold my shirts, my pants, my underwear, and all other items that will most likely be thrown over board if I am caught. I rest a hand on her shoulder, humming her favorite old folk tune. She relaxes and I can almost see a smile tugging on her cheek. “The boat will be cold at night,” She finally looks up at me, “At least let me pack you a few extra pairs of socks.”

“Nicholas,” My father enters the room. His hair gelled tightly behind his ears and gut tucked firmly beneath his belt. He places today’s paper on the counter and picks up his coffee with both palms. I assume it’s so that he has an excuse not to hug me goodbye. “All packed I presume?

“Yes, Papa.”

“Got your bags?”

“Yes.”

“Crew pass?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that thing will work?” He eyes my white pants and jacket with the navy blue trim, then studies the identification pass strung around my neck.

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Scraps – Mothers Recipe

It was my first time cooking pasta with meat sauce. The only reason it’s meaningful to me, I used my mother’s recipe. A Greek mother’s specialty, “Macaronia Meh Kima.” The sauce might not have tasted just like hers, but I think I did a pretty damn good job for a first attempt. You go, me.

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