My favorite hour of the day is, of course, my lunch hour. But although I'm beginning to adjust to this big city life and beginning to feel like I blend in more than I stand out, there are some things that I just can't quite get used to. One of them is going out to lunch.
In Florence, ordering a sandwich is not so much about the sandwich at
all, but about chatting with the man (or woman) behind the counter and the choice
of fresh ingredients. No one wears name tags, yet somehow we all
know each other's names. Take a moment to comment or compliment or celebrate or (if you are feeling very Italian) to complain, say whatever is on your mind. The bread will sustain you, of course, but so will the
conversation. For this reason, it takes 5 minutes to
make 1 sandwich. This is the miracle of time in Florence.
And
somehow, a lunch hour is the same amount of time in Washington DC, yet
it feels so minimalistic, so bare bones, so cold. I say my
order as quickly as possible, using only the essential words and shuffle in a
line with a dozen other people around the counter, performing an awkward daily dance that always ends with the impersonal swipe of a credit card. My food crosses three or four different people's hands and I don't even have time to look any of them in the eye.
There will be no fretting over finding two euros for change, there will
be the minimum required exchange of pleasantries. When someone asks you
how you are doing, you will tell them that you are doing well, thank
you for asking, regardless of how you are actually doing. For this reason, they can serve 5 customers in 1
minute. This is the miracle of time in Washington DC.
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