Sorry this took so long! Enjoy, and please R/R!!

A couple of weeks later…

“Buona notte, ladies and gentlemen,” I heard a pleasant, mellow voice with a distinct Italian accent address the crowded cabin. “Welcome aboard flight 98 with service to Gatwick, London, final destination, JFK, New York City. Our expected travel time today…”

I slumped dejectedly in my seat, doing my level best to zone out yet again. Buckled in and already feeling like a caged animal, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Didn’t even bother to open them when the guy sitting two seats over asked me if I was traveling with someone, or if it was ok if his wife sat in the empty between us since their seats had been split between the aisles. Lovely. Why are there no single people anywhere in this world anymore? I must have murmured something vaguely ‘yes’-like, since said wife got up and sat next to her husband a moment later.

I couldn’t believe I was here again. Back in the airplane. For another 10 hour torture session. I was already feeling a bit suffocated. Although, at least this time I wasn’t feeling the raw anger and betrayal that had fueled my miserable temper on the way here. Not at this precise moment anyway. Thank God for small favors. But every once in awhile I’d find another pocket of anger towards her buried.

What I was feeling though, was a whole lot of exhaustion. It was like…I’d been mentally concentrating on theoretical physics, or something confoundingly (for me) similar, for three weeks straight and with no recuperative sleeping time. More than that, I had a monster headache- I suspected that was at least partially self-induced since it had never really left since that day. Furthermore, I was pretty sure the close quarters weren’t helping. I’d never really been bothered by small spaces before, but after these necessarily evil plane rides were over, I was pretty sure I would be developing a slight case of claustrophobia.

All in all, I was feeling pretty beat. The desire to go home was strong. The desire to avoid home, almost stronger in some ways. Horrible though it had been at first, there was one bright spot- my trip had not been wasted. I’d done what I’d set out to do, and found my flavor. Maybe I hadn’t been able to enjoy life to the absolute fullest while on my travels, but finding my flavor, my muse, was the crucial thing. And I hadn’t been let down in that respect. Who needed a significant other to enjoy Italy anyway? I thought (in what some might call a bitter fashion) as I reflected on my trip.

My stay in Rome had been relatively short, only 3 or 4 days, but plagued with nothing but misery nonetheless. Everywhere I went, lovers abounded- seemingly posing in the most romantic of places as if to expressly rub it in my face that I was here alone, and not by choice. I’d actually witnessed a marriage proposal at the Trevi Fountain, which had instantaneously caused my blood to run cold. I had found myself, unconsciously of course, practically running back the way I had come amidst all of the happy clapping and shouting from onlookers wishing the happy couple well wishes (of course that guy’s girlfriend had said yes and meant it). I was dismayed to find how much it still hurt thinking about it now, even after weeks in which to get over it. And now I was angry too that something so romantic was destroyed forever for me. Man, she’d really knocked it home.

In addition to that, from the moment I had stepped off the plane, (thankfully, one of the tickets had my name on it, or I most certainly would never have made it this far to begin with) I’d been addressed as ‘Mr. Suarez’. At the hotel. At restaurants. I couldn’t believe it- she was still here, torturing me beyond belief, even in another freaking country. Now there’s capable. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was, in Italy, staying at four star establishments on the Meade Empire’s dime, hadn’t had to pay for a cent of this myself. But I had to be reminded of her with every waking move. Always a catch.

Finally I gave in and headed towards the Southern countryside and hopefully relative anonymity. It was kind of startling to realize that those Italians would give anyone a motorbike if their paper was good. Having a genuine Italian last name probably hadn’t hurt any either. In any case, I’d taken it and ran without looking back. Equipped with a good road map, backpack, and Italian dictionary, being without a plan didn’t even bother me. I actually welcomed it; if nothing else, it had to help distract me.

My first stop at a quaint Italian farm to try and get some help deciphering my ‘good’ road map had done me a world of good, as well as providing some of the only pleasant memories it appeared I was going to get from this trip. The old woman and her equally ancient husband had welcomed me like a long-lost son instead of some bewildered American tourist of Italian extraction. They had a boy who lived and worked with them on the farm, Giordano, who spoke decent English, and once my basic story was out, the old couple had insisted that I stay with them. I tried to decline politely, but the Colaroccos would not be deterred. After a whole lot of arm waving and cheek pinching (on old Ana Maria’s part), I finally gave in to my debilitating American attitude of paranoia and accepted the offer for what it was- the hospitality that Mediterranean cultures were famed for. I used their rustic country farm as a base camp of sorts and took trips during the day. Sometimes I went with Ana Maria’s husband, Fabrizio, to visit neighbors, and sometimes I stripped down to my undershirt and helped Giordano in the barns and fields. Southern Italy in the middle of summer is pretty damn hot. Betty still lingered in the back of my mind, but I had managed to stifle the majority of my self-pity in hard labor, sweat and distraction at the Colarocco’s farm.

It was during one of these trips to a neighboring farm that I had come across my flavor, and it was like…love at first sight. Surely this was what it felt like. I remember it like it was yesterday, which really wasn’t so far from the truth if one wanted to put too fine a point on it. I had walked into the barn with Fabrizio and his neighbor, Paolo, and seen those lovely balls of donato scamorza hanging cavalierly from hooks on the ceiling. The pungent tang of the smoky, slightly acidic cheese hit me; my mouth began to water and new sandwiches began forming in my head; it was all I could do not to name them right there on the spot. Paolo Dinnano was my savior. He noticed my interest in the cheese almost right away and, excited by the prospect of a fellow connoisseur, eagerly told me how he achieved his results. I absorbed every detail, and with a promise to return the next day to help Paolo mend a fence to keep his beloved Luisa safe and sound, I secured my destiny- two balls of the wondrous cheese in payment.

Once I found my cheese, my flavor, I was consumed by the need to …create. It was just imperative that I wrap things up here and move on with life, one sandwich at a time. I enjoyed one last dinner on the farm with Ana Maria, Fabrizio and Giordano, and announced my intentions of leaving the next day. There were tears and disappointed faces, but I had found what I came for. I was grateful for their assistance and companionship, and amid phone number exchanges and promises of returning one day for a visit, I set back out to Rome on my little motorbike.

The closer I got to the busy city, the heavier my heart felt. I had been able to spend nearly two weeks of blissful distraction, and had purposely kept thoughts of New York at bay. Under any other circumstances, I never in a million years would have cashed my ticket in early to go home, but I couldn’t hide in the Italian countryside forever- no matter how tempting. If nothing else, my family was already going to murder me- outside of calling them when I had arrived to let them know I was safe, I hadn’t really spoken to them.

I thought more about my time on the farm. I’d never had the opportunity to live in the countryside before; I thought I rather liked it. A lot actually. What a great place to raise a family. If the thought made me a little wistful, I tried not to give in to it- although even I felt the little smile I’d had on my face fade.

Absently, I looked out the window, and was slightly startled to realize that we were already preparing for landing in London. Somehow, in my distraction, I hadn’t even realized we’d taken off. For a moment I panicked, feeling as if I had left something behind. But then I remembered that my flavor was safe- my beautiful Italian scamorza was carefully, lovingly packaged and packed in my carry-on, just waiting for the second I could get it to the deli and begin delighting NYC with its rich flavor. This was going to put me on the map, I could practically taste it.

I exited the plane with the others and made my way into the busy airport, ruminating on my life pre-Scamorza, and daydreaming about what it was going to be like from now on. I was just amazed and humbled at how a dairy product could change the very fabric of life. And I was going to embrace it, all of it, eagerly. I even went so far as to wonder if it wasn’t better things had ended up this way- if I’d had Betty with me, I may not have discovered this so quickly, if at all. Probably would have gotten stuck in the tourist traps in Rome or tried to do something stupidly romantic and gotten completely distracted from my mission, I thought cynically.

On something like autopilot, I grabbed some airport grub (which definitely could have benefited from my once-in-a-lifetime find) and found myself a relatively comfortable chair away from the crowds- not easy to do in an airport. I still had hours before the plane was due to take off. Forgetting my troubles for a few minutes and concentrating on all the fame and glory that awaited me back at the deli post-Scamorza, I closed my eyes, feeling much better about being on the way back home now. And all of a sudden…

I was standing near the reception desk at Mode, and the office was strangely empty of everyday activities and the people I was so used to seeing by now. It was so quiet and still that I could hear my own heartbeat. The silence and inactivity was creepy. I spotted the elevator and hurried towards it. Just as I was about to press the ‘Down’ button, the bell dinged, and the doors opened. Henry stepped out and gave me a smile and a handshake. Then he put his arm around my shoulder and motioned that I should follow him back in the direction that I had just come from, talking to me like we were good friends or something.

When I turned around, suddenly the office was teeming with life. Phones were ringing and chatter was rampant. Amanda was behind the desk as usual, filing her nails and giving every guy that walked by a suggestive look. It seemed so normal, but still felt wrong. Henry was still talking, and I struggled to focus back in on what he was saying.

“…got a date with Betty,” he said excitedly and pointed down the hall. My eyes followed Henry’s gesture just in time to see the back of Betty’s brightly colored skirt and a swish of long dark hair round a corner and disappear from sight.

A bit uncomfortable, I turned to look up at Henry, and was startled to see that Henry was no longer there- Hilda had taken his place, and was now excitedly talking about something she and Betty were doing after work that night. Just then, someone jostled me from behind, catching me off guard. I had to turn my body slightly to catch my balance. It was Marc, and he was saying snidely, “Betty’s not here right now- she’s out with her boyfriend, who turns out not to be you, sandwich man.”

I gave him a strange look- first of all, who said I was looking for Betty? I thought indignantly. Secondly, I’d just seen her with my own eyes, so I knew she was too here. I ignored how much that last part bothered me. I turned back around to say something to Hilda (like “What the hell is going on?”), and was startled again to find that Daniel was now in her place. He didn’t even seem to notice me standing there, but was motioning to someone across the room. “Betty, can you get that file back to me before you leave tonight? Oh hey, Gio,” he said, as he noticed me standing there.

I whipped around to see a clothes rack rolling by the vicinity Daniel had been waving to. Frustratedly, I turned around again, only this time Daniel was gone and Nella was standing next to me. What was she doing here?

“Don’t bother with Braces, bro. She’s taking me to the movies tonight, so she won’t be able to go out with you,” Nella said with a smirk. Great, now even my brat-face little sister was ganging up on me.

Ok, that was it. There was something seriously messed up going on here, and I was just done with it. I gave dream-Nella a dirty look, and headed back towards the elevator, intent on getting the hell out of this madhouse. Just as I got there, the doors opened. Almost immediately, they began to close again- but not before I saw Betty standing inside holding my balls of scamorza in one hand and the lease to my deli in the other, with a disgustingly smug smile on her face. She held them both out towards me tauntingly, and as the doors closed I could hear her saying in a singsong voice, “Come get them Gio -you’ve worked so hard , they belong to you…”

I became livid with rage. I could feel my blood pressure rising and an overall helplessness bearing down on me. I pounded ineffectually on the door, and hit the button repeatedly, shouting the whole time. And now everyone behind me, including my sister, was laughing at me. The door finally opened and I jumped into the elevator, which was apparently stopping at every single floor on the way down. On the 23rd floor, I jumped out , and savagely mowed some executive types down on my way to the stairs. I ran so quickly down the stairs, it didn’t even feel like my feet were touching the floor.

As I reached the lobby, I saw the back of Betty again, walking out the front door, cheese in one hand, papers in the other. I chased her down the streets of Manhattan endlessly, only to have her turn a corner and disappear, or walk in front of a bus and disappear, every single time. Finally, out of breath and swearing a blue streak, I halted in the middle of the road to catch my breath. I heard shouting behind me, and turned around just in time to see a very large horse pulling a carriage, not unlike the one I had taken Betty for a ride in, about to run me over.

I jerked upright in my chair out of the nightmare. The feelings of rage, frustration, panic, impotence were still wreaking havoc on my sensory system. My breathing was choppy and coming in short bursts, my heart was pounding, and I was sweating like I had just run a marathon. Gripping the armrests of the chair tightly, I looked around, trying to take in my whereabouts. I forced myself to stop gulping for air, and as the blind panic subsided a little, I realized that I was still at the airport. Shit. I had fallen asleep. How long had I been out for?

A new type of panic setting in, I fished around in my pocket desperately for my boarding pass. The plane was leaving at 7:05. My watch said that it was 7:00 sharp. Momentarily putting the dream behind me, I jumped up, grabbed my bag and ran for the gate. That was exactly what I did NOT need, to miss my flight. Was this trip meant to be cursed the entire way?

I got there just as the gate attendant was closing the door. “WAIT!” I yelled. “I’m here! I cannot miss this plane.”

She glanced at my pass to verify that I was indeed the missing passenger, and shooed me through the door. I ran down the ramp and onto the plane, apologizing to the staff and hurrying back to my seat. No sooner had I sat down in my seat did the plane start taxiing. I slumped in my chair, still feeling the adrenaline from both the dream and the mad dash to the gate. Again I had to force myself to breathe more regularly. Calm down, I told himself. You made it. The dream/nightmare was hovering in the back of my consciousness demanding attention, but I dismissed it for now. I had an almost 8 hour plane ride ahead of me in which to torture myself with it. And quite frankly, I wanted a few minutes in which to congratulate myself that it had a) been only a dream, b) I hadn’t missed the plane, and c) there was no way my life could possibly get worse today.