I don’t care much about food. I could eat a bowl of popcorn and a bowl of edamame and call it dinner. But I do love a good sandwich. Boy has an appreciation for a good sandwich as well. He has his list of favorites: Bill Grey’s veggie burger in Rochester, The New Yorker, Ciao Bella’s, and Schlotzky’s in P’cola, SemiFreddi’s, Bella pastry shop, Jimmy Beans and Toy Boat here in bay area. I like Toy Boat and Jimmy Beans, that swiss and sprouts at a place in P’cola, Putnam Street Deli in Saratoga Springs gets me drooling.
When I was studying abroad in Paris, I did the whole Rome, Florence, Venice train trip that so many people take (b/c it’s super easy.) I almost bailed on my traveling mates not long into the trip. I was out of my element and, more importantly, out of my meds I was taking at the time. I was a ball of nerves and insecurity, about 10 lbs heavier with a cropped boy haircut (what’s popular in the US, not so much in Europe.) But in the middle of that trip, the full day we spent in Florence wandering, what felt like going in circles, we hit a sandwich shop. And it was the best sandwich of my life. I don’t remember the shop, I don’t remember what was on the sandwich, but I do remember sitting on the sidewalk by a mile-long row of parked mopeds and devouring the best sandwich ever. I remember the courtyard and the sun dried tomatoes and the archway that hid the sandwich shop and I’m convinced that if I ever find myself in Florence again, on the same axis as the sandwich shop, I will be able to find my way back.
So when boy woke up the other morning and said he had a dream about us and the end of the world, I had to ask what we were doing.
“Wandering the demolished streets looking for a restaurant,” he said.
“Well I hope it was a sandwich shop we were looking for.”
“Of course. What else?”
It makes perfect sense to me.