Eat. Pray. F*ck.

My First Italian Sausage

Even more delicious than I had dreamed it would be!

The flight was absolutely fucking awful. A mask on my face for fourteen hours as Delta Fuck-Me Airlines puttered across the ocean and finally after an eternity or two got me to Rome.

Thank you.

I cried for about half of the flight. Because I already missed my dog. No, I didn’t miss my boyfriend.

Was he still my boyfriend?

That was unclear. Why do I live like this?

“You are diffuse, Christine,” my therapist said. “That is the racket you run on the world. You hide behind your diffusion. You are never clear with anyone. Not even me.”

Oh well, and I pay you to insult me that way? Thanks, Doc.

But I have been a little diffuse with Aron, it’s true. Because I don’t want him to hurt my dog. I want him to take care of my soulmate, my pointer. Did you know that sixty percent of people name their pet as their soul mate? So see, I’m not that weird.

“Did you break up with Aron?” my BFF, Emily, asked me when I phoned her from the airport.

“Kinda?” I said.

She heard the BS in my tone.

“Oh Chrissy,” she said. “Chrissy, Chrissy.”

“Ok, Friend of Exclamation Mark!”

That is what I call her sometimes. Because in tenth grade when we were in this math class the teacher had a list of names, and we looked at the list of names once when she wasn’t there, and the teacher had written beside my name, an exclamation mark. Christine Stevens ! Only the exclamation mark was big, and in red marker.

That was because I was the class clown. I was disruptive. I probably insulted her a lot. I’m not proud.

Then we looked at Emily’s name and we cracked up. Next to Emily’s name the teacher had written, “Friend of !” Also in big red magic marker.

Poor Emily suffered a lot I guess during high school by her association with me. So every once in a while, when it’s obvious that she would be better off completely disassociating herself from me, I remind her by calling her Friend of Exclamation Mark.

But I was reformed now. No longer a juvenile delinquent. I was now an adult delinquent.

I was going full-on full-ass delinquent. I was picking up and leaving the whole country. I was going on a spiritual quest. I was going to live in Europe. For at least a year. And I was going to find myself.

And this adventure had a name.

Eat. Pray. F*ck.

Yep, that’s what it was going to be called. And Emily knew that was the plan. And so why the hell wouldn’t I break up with my boyfriend officially and clearly if I was going on an adventure called “Eat, Pray, F*ck?” I mean what was wrong with me, exactly?

“I know, I know,” I said to her at the airport. “I’ll make it more official when I get there. I’ll write him a letter or something.”

“Uh huh,” she said.

I hate when she says uh huh. That’s an awful thing to say to your BFF. Jesus, Friend of Exclamation Mark. You make me feel like a real fucking backslash sometimes, you know that?

I arrived at Rome International Airport about 48 hours ago. And already she’s been…surprise, surprise…quite an exclamation mark.

Even I’m surprised at myself!

Within those first 48 hours, I’ve managed to find a cheap place to crash, Hotel Smeralda, thanks, TripAdvisor, with my new local haunt nearby— a charming cafe called perché no?. Google translate has informed me that it means why not?, which is exactly what I thought when ordering two orange marmalade-filled croissants and a cappuccino.

“No, no cappuccino,” the barista said as he refused to take my order.

I blinked, confused but definitely delighted by his thick Italian accent. He had a thick mop of curly brown hair and a pierced ear with a cross dangling from it, which was somewhat of a common sight amongst the young Italian dudes I’d seen on the streets. He must have been about 22 or 23.

A damn sexy 22 or 23, might I add.

Damn it, Christine. Why can’t you just enjoy your 1,000-calorie snack just like a normal American without eye-fucking the first Italian man to talk to you?

“No, in Italy…” he said, placing heavy emphasis so the country sounded more like Eeeeeeeetaly. “No cappuccino after afternoon. I bring espresso.”

Espresso. Cappuccino. I didn’t give a shit anymore. I had a new thirst that needed to be quenched. And his name was Francesco. Or Marco. Or Giovanni. I didn’t know what spicy calzone’s name was yet, but I was going to find out. I was going to be screaming it later. I just knew it.

That night at the Smeralda, I was standing on the veranda, I was lost amongst the century-old terra cotta buildings draped in green ivy and birdshit. Lol, Rome is beautiful but it’s gosh darn worn out in some parts. The buildings have shuttered windows, strung clotheslines, remnants of plastered posters and graffiti and so on. It’s perfect. Decaying and decadent — a perfect place for decadent adventure.

I guess that explains what happened next. Even for me what happened next was somewhat, well…shocking.

Thing is, I couldn’t believe I was actually free from America, and free from my BF and I was here in Rome, on my little veranda, and it didn’t feel real. I guess I wanted proof. Could I really be liberated? Was I really ballsy enough to go on this adventure of Eat. Pray. F*ck? Or was I going to chicken out and run back home?

Was I still Christine Exclamation Mark? Lately, I had been feeling more like Christine Question Mark. Like even Two Question Marks.

Did I still have the mojo, or no?

I would soon find out.

The next day, I headed back to the cafe for my afternoon espresso. I made sure to wear my red low-cut sweater, which propped up my tits like two freshly breaded arancini.

Francesco/Marco/Giovanni was behind the bar, scrolling through his phone. No one else was working inside, and there was only one old man sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. As I approached the bar, his Nutella-colored eyes rested on mine before they darted down to my breasts.

“Scusi,” I muttered, pushing my riso-titties out even further.

“Si?” he chirped, not taking his eyes off my chest.

“Un espresso per favore.”

God bless Google Translate.

He set the shot of steaming hot coffee on the bar, “Gratuita. Free. For bella donna”.

I had no idea what the fuck he was going on about except I did recognize the word “bella”. And that was all I needed to make my next move.

Without taking my eyes off him, I walked around the bar and stood next to him behind the cash register.

He must have gotten the hint because he immediately shouted more Italian nonsense to the old man, who got up and walked outside.

“Mamma mia,” he exclaimed as I placed my hands on his belt and kneeled down.

You heard that correctly. Italians actually say, “mamma mia.”

I should have laughed, but instead, I opened my mouth and tasted my first piece of hot Italian sausage.

And holy shit — it did taste better than I could have ever imagined.

I took a glimpse up as I went to work, and the caught a glint of the sun on that dangling earring cross. I gave a wink to the invisible Jesus I imagined I saw there in the silver light. I swear he winked back.

I had approval from on high for my journey. My quest. My need for adventure. My thirst for pleasure. My hunger for self-discovery and cock.

I returned to my sausage with a new sense of purpose.

After a few seconds I heard the long, exasperated outcry of the word, “Siiiiiiiii”. I wiped my lips and stood up. I had my answer. Yes, this was really happening. I was really here in Europe. And yes, I was free to do whatever I wanted. No limits.

After all, perché no?

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