A Sandwich Amongst Paninis

I am human too. I am the same, I repeat inside.

I know this feeling. I haven't had it in a very long time. It's the desire to jump ahead, to know things that I can't yet know. To feel things I don’t yet feel. I walk the streets of Milan, looking. I don't fit in. I'm different. Everyone here is the same. I catch myself thinking of all the times I’ve felt this way before. I remember those moments when I found out how human everyone else was.

I am human too. I am the same, I repeat inside.

I clutch my Kindle. It’s my company for tonight. Some book about Vincent van Gogh. I downloaded it before I left Brussels today. His sunflowers remind me to turn towards the light. It’s too dark for that tonight.

Everyone’s happy and drunk. They’re laughing with friends. They’re dressed nicely. I’m wearing my plane clothes, a red velvet jogging suit with ‘Juicy Couture’ splayed across my butt. No one even glances at me. Or that’s how I feel. Twenty-somethings spill off the terraces and onto the sidewalks. I weave around them.

I’m going to a ramen place. Ramen in Italy. I don't know what got into my head. On the way, I think, okay, I'll find pasta instead. It’s close to midnight. The kitchens are closed. After asking at four or five places, I sit down. The only open place I find is a panini shop.

I chuckle. I know what the word means. My second Italian lesson was all about paninis. The instructor kept saying, ‘They’re just sandwiches’. This is an artisanal panini shop with horse meat. At least that’s what Google Translate says.

I choose a panini. Brisket, not horse meat; I’ll save adventure for when I’m not hungry. The waiter says they’re out. “Get an eggplant one,” he suggests. I think okay, whatever. Vegetarian. But it's Italy. It should be good, right? I ask for a glass of white wine.

I read as I wait. I watch the table in front of me. I keep reading and watching the big group of Italian friends. There are so many Italians here. More than there are Belgians in Brussels.

I catch the eye of someone and try to look away. I don’t want to talk to that someone. He keeps looking. I keep reading. I start drinking my Pinot Grigio. I’m eating my eggplant sandwich, trying to enjoy every bite. I keep thinking I can’t wait to feel the feelings I’ll feel.

I want to flash forward. Know the people, so I know I’m like them. I want to feel at home. I want this place to be my home. Why? I like Italian. It sounds like a song. Imagine singing with your friends every evening. Eating paninis that have to be good because it’s Italy.

Why not, really.

I finish my wine. I'm a little tipsy like the rest of the town.

Now, do I fit in?

The waiter brings me the check. He wishes me happy reading and a good night. I gather my stuff. I notice the people as I head back. The sidewalks are pulsing with crowds. I don’t go around them. I walk right through them.

Thank you,

Garrett Kincaid

, for your consistently thoughtful, helpful, and supportive feedback! And the great title :))