Blowing Up in Italy
So my flat is filled with Italian men. They are passionately arguing whether it's safe to turn the gas back on. The "Gas man" keeps pointing at me and then making these explosion sounds while gesturing explosion with his arms; you know like you might toss confetti into the air at a party.
Well it is a celebration. After all, it's #friendsday and while that seems made up—aren't all holidays, you argue. (Captain Obvious in the back, everyone. He's more of an acquaintance.)—I do cherish my lovely friends, near and far. At present, you are almost all far as I have few friends here in Italy, save the Gas man who has now taken a pause from miming my demise with explosion charades to tell me, in the maybe 10 words of English he knows, that I'm beautiful. ... All the men turn to look in my direction and I lift my shoulders to my ears and mime back, Who me?
If I die in a gas explosion or accidentally elope, please know that I love all of you more than tiramisu, and more than Chianti, and more than strong, Italian coffee with warm brioche on a rainy day, more than olive groves and acacia honey.
It's #friendsday and I have the very best of them. Thank you.