The hills outside of Rome are on fire. Funny that didn’t make the news in America. I suppose we have our own problems. And our own fires. I’ve listened to farmers chronicle the days without rainfall this spring and summer, and unremitting heat that started in May. We’ve reached the burst-into-flames point on our journey through the pre-apocalypse.
It’s raining ash on the northern half of the city, including the Parioli neighborhood where I’m staying. I notice the extreme haze while driving away from Fiumicino airport. The smell of woodsmoke hangs over Il Cigno Pasticceria while I stop for a coffee-flavored granita, and a coffee. Served in a chilled silver chalice! I’m tired. Or maybe my blood oxygen level is low. Or maybe withdrawal is setting in. Twenty four hours away from American cold brew and my thoughts and movements are slowing down.
I was sure someone in Parioli was grilling brats in an oil drum over fancy charcoal, to celebrate our country’s glorious revolution. Italians love American things. There’s a Don’t Tread on Me flag hanging from the balcony behind the hotel. Maybe it’s that guy. I wonder if he misses his AR-15. Writes it letters. Has a postcard from the gun range taped to his fridge.
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