Article written

Julius Caesar’s footprints 0

Dear Bradshaw,

            Here we are = Sabaudia. Beautiful. Bob Dylan’s Tambourine Man is playing on the Pod, local red wine is in the glass, a flame is flickering on the tip of a candle, cheese, olives and sun-dried tomatoes are on a plate on the coffee table, it’s Saturday, meaning we have two more days of this. Jimi’s here and has already knocked over a few things, disguised herself with dust, and is currently running up and down the stairs. We’ve got a Cohiba cigar, one of Cuba’s finest, fresh mozzarella in the fridge, three huge bottles of Sabaudia wine, and a forecast of relaxation. And now, my friend, I’m going to eat another olive.

            Listen, Shaw, if you ever get out of that hoosegow, you’ve got to get your tuchus over here. We’ll rage against the dying of the light just like old times, partner, just like the good old days. Nothing has changed with me except my address.

            We’re here with the olives, wine, cheese, the cigar, the candle, Jimi and, of course, Francesca, and I’ve got to tell you, pal, I’ve found my niche here, my circle of solitude. The Mediterranean, and Italy especially, is my Cadillac Margarita. Right outside my apartment in Rome the Pope is picking his nose and flicking the snot between Vatican cobblestones, Julius Caesar’s footprints are preserved beneath layers of soot, Michelangelo’s masterpieces are still exploding with life, Vivaldi’s music is resonating in the air, the Colosseum is crumbling, the espresso is hot and gelato cold. Meanwhile, Jimi is licking my foot, the big toe to be exact. She’s getting to be a bit of a Bolshevik.

5 people like this post.

subscribe to comments RSS

There are no comments for this post

Please, feel free to post your own comment

* these are required fields

Scott Sussman is powered by WordPress and FREEmium Theme.