MANICHAEAN
02-01-2018, 05:29 AM
"Vedi Napoli e poi muori."
It was the 2 am red eye flight from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, scheduled to fly south across the state border. Not that he wanted to fly at that unearthly hour; but then, (like the other poor souls in the departure lounge), if you gotta go, you gotta go.
Was it his imagination, or was there an irreversible firmness in the boarding procedure that evening?
Flying business class, because of the leg room, he settled into his seat and the great beast, clawed its way upwards to its domain.
As black as Old Nicks innards outside.
Initial libations of hot hand towels and orange juice from rather attractive and poised air stewardesses, who seemed to parade the aisle like models on a catwalk. "You can look and admire, but no touch." One quite old man in a seat across the way spilt his drink on himself. It was both touching and almost unexpected, how in an instant, the demeanour of a stewardess changed. Gone the reserved look and behaviour of a rich man's mannequin; as like a true "mama," she fussed, over the old gentlemen consoling him like a child.
Imperceptibly there was a slumber somewhere between two worlds, and then he awoke; dry mouth and fuzzy awareness before the final landing. As they taxied to the terminal, the tannoy announced that the weather outside was 12 degrees centigrade and cloudy, with a six hour time difference, so please adjust your watches.
Strange that he had to go through immigration and his passport was not returned. Perhaps Trump had inspired some new procedure?
The drive from the airport, and through the city was frenetic. Red lights were either ignored or used as indications of general direction. Whatever it was, there was an unrelenting urgency about everything. Whether in narrow alleys or broad squares adorned with imposing statutes and ancient fountains, the populace seemed to use both speech and hand gestures with an intensity that assailed any convention restraint.
He had been booked into a hotel on the extremities of the city; where he dined that night on what appeared to be a local delicacy under the imposing title of "agnello cacio e ova," a kind of lamb stew with a cheese and egg sauce. The waiters were both attentive and sympathetic; yet beneath the initial layers of appearances, bore more than a hint of criminal accomplices complete with stealthy treads.
The bill came and he paid. Was there a sadness, bordering on sympathy in the face of the teller?
Outside the road had become a dusty track that wound upwards towards the huge rimmed mass that rose before him. He bent down and sifted through his fingers a handful of volcanic dust.
The lightsomeness of life, beneath an Italian heaven had met the solemnity of death.
It was the 2 am red eye flight from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, scheduled to fly south across the state border. Not that he wanted to fly at that unearthly hour; but then, (like the other poor souls in the departure lounge), if you gotta go, you gotta go.
Was it his imagination, or was there an irreversible firmness in the boarding procedure that evening?
Flying business class, because of the leg room, he settled into his seat and the great beast, clawed its way upwards to its domain.
As black as Old Nicks innards outside.
Initial libations of hot hand towels and orange juice from rather attractive and poised air stewardesses, who seemed to parade the aisle like models on a catwalk. "You can look and admire, but no touch." One quite old man in a seat across the way spilt his drink on himself. It was both touching and almost unexpected, how in an instant, the demeanour of a stewardess changed. Gone the reserved look and behaviour of a rich man's mannequin; as like a true "mama," she fussed, over the old gentlemen consoling him like a child.
Imperceptibly there was a slumber somewhere between two worlds, and then he awoke; dry mouth and fuzzy awareness before the final landing. As they taxied to the terminal, the tannoy announced that the weather outside was 12 degrees centigrade and cloudy, with a six hour time difference, so please adjust your watches.
Strange that he had to go through immigration and his passport was not returned. Perhaps Trump had inspired some new procedure?
The drive from the airport, and through the city was frenetic. Red lights were either ignored or used as indications of general direction. Whatever it was, there was an unrelenting urgency about everything. Whether in narrow alleys or broad squares adorned with imposing statutes and ancient fountains, the populace seemed to use both speech and hand gestures with an intensity that assailed any convention restraint.
He had been booked into a hotel on the extremities of the city; where he dined that night on what appeared to be a local delicacy under the imposing title of "agnello cacio e ova," a kind of lamb stew with a cheese and egg sauce. The waiters were both attentive and sympathetic; yet beneath the initial layers of appearances, bore more than a hint of criminal accomplices complete with stealthy treads.
The bill came and he paid. Was there a sadness, bordering on sympathy in the face of the teller?
Outside the road had become a dusty track that wound upwards towards the huge rimmed mass that rose before him. He bent down and sifted through his fingers a handful of volcanic dust.
The lightsomeness of life, beneath an Italian heaven had met the solemnity of death.