Lisbon in my Heart

Pint in hand, I found a corner at the edge of the quaint bar with a good vantage point. People were getting in and out, but mostly in. A lady wearing a black dress and a dark shawl across her shoulder was taking center stage. She had a red flower in her hair which I thought gave a nice contrast to the black. Her companion was holding a Portuguese guitar and getting situated on the bench next to her. He strummed the beautiful instrument and the crowd went hush in anticipation. The lady in black started singing and all eyes and ears were on her. Her voice was high pitched but warm. Although I couldn’t understand the words, she was expressive. I sensed sorrow in her manner and quaver in her tone. The inexperienced ear may be confused whether this was a funeral or a bar performance. She was a “fadista”, and today I landed in Lisbon.

Fado, Portugal’s national music treasure, is profoundly melancholic and poetic in nature. It originated in Lisbon in the early nineteenth century and is most commonly staged in cafes and bars. It often describes the harsh realities of everyday life and the feeling of loss or longing at sea. To me Lisbon is Fado. One can feel it admiring the historic buildings while walking the old cobblestoned neighborhoods, or catching the sunset on top one of its hills, imagining the departing sailors pushing their ships to sea in pursuit of riches beyond the Atlantic. Being the hopeless romantic that I am, Lisbon felt like home.

After I had nourished my soul with Fado and hydrated my body with beer, it was time to satisfy my growling stomach. I hadn’t had any real food since I arrived in Lisbon a few hours earlier. What I needed at this hour of the night was marinated slices of pork simmered in white wine sauce, garlic and paprika served on a soft roll with piri-piri sauce and a dash of mustard. The United States has burger, Italy has pizza, and Portugal has bifana. The bifana is best enjoyed counter-side with full view of the gridle and an arm reach to the mustard bottle and piri-piri sauce. Cheap, juicy, and sinfully delicious. I headed to O Trevo where I heard they served them best; boy did I hear correctly. I ordered a bifana with a glass of Super Bock. Twenty minutes later, I was on my third bifana and second Super Bock. I was as happy as one can be. Buenas noches to all, and to all a good night.

The next day was a full day. I left my hostel around 10am and took a walk down Avenida da Liberdade for some window shopping as I made my way to café a Brasileira. Once there, I ordered a café latè and a piece of Pastel de Nata, the famous Portuguese egg custard tart dusted with cinnamon. I enjoyed sitting at the historic café so much that I got a second order while planning my day. After coffee, I took the iconic tram 28 and headed to Bairro da Graça, or so I thought. Fifteen minutes into the joy ride, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction. No harm done, I hopped off and hopped onto the next tram heading into Bairro da Graça. One of Lisbon’s oldest neighborhoods, Graça sits on top of Lisbon’s highest hill and boasts sweeping views of the Tagus river and the countless red roofs below. If you had couple of ours to spend in Lisbon, this is where you want to be.

I walked around the old neighborhood for a bit and took in the views from the Lago da Graça overlook. It was a beautiful fall day and the sun was out, so I decided to walk down the hill to explore the Alfama Barrio, where fado all started. As I began my decent, I came across the castle of Saint Jorge which dates back to the 8thcentury. If I like anything more than castles, it’s castles with wine offerings. I stepped back into history and enjoyed a walk around the historic structure. I ended up at the edge of the courtyard admiring the spectacular view. I grabbed a glass of wine from the wine stand – yes, wine stand on the castle grounds – and sat down at the edge thinking how am I going to drag myself out of here.

I left the castle and made my way down the hill into the heart of Alfama. This barrio is not for the faint of heart. The oldest neighborhood in Lisbon is nestled on the side of a hill and paints a picturesque labyrinth of cobbled alleyways, historic houses, and quaint plazas. How old one might ask? Sé de Lisboa, or the Cathedral of Lisbon, stood the test of time in this glorious neighborhood since the 12th century. In the evening, one could hear fado reverberate from the nearby restaurants. Only by being in Alfama one can truly understand the true meaning of fado. If the ubiquitous historic structures stacked upon one another can speak, they’d tell a thousand stories of hardship, poverty, and longing. Your mind needs not to wander far to picture a woman looking out from her balcony waving her husband goodbye as he sails down the Tagus, wondering if she’ll every see him again. Right there and then, I learned that Alfama is truly the heart of Lisbon.

The sun was setting, and all this emotional strain made me extra hungry. However, in Portugal, just like most of Europe, Lunch is served 12-2:30pm and Dinner after 8pm. It was 6pm and I needed to kill some time. A drink perhaps? Once at the bottom of the hill, I set off in pursuit of a Portuguese staple. Ginjinha, a liqueur made from Ginja cherries soaked in brandy and served as a shot. If there’s a place where one must try his first ginginha, it must be at A Ginginha. A tiny bar named after the drink itself serving the sweet libation since 1840. A counter, an older gentleman, and countless ginginha bottles; that’s all the bar had to offer. With or without a cherry are the only options on the menu. I took mine without and stepped outside to enjoy my shot with other fellow “time-killers”. At 1€ each, it was easy to lose track of how many I consumed. The sweetness and smoothness of the drink didn’t help either. After five or six shots I called it quits; it was time for food.

Being on the water, Lisbon is known for its seafood. Nowhere else in the city can you enjoy the sea’s bounties more than Cervejaria Ramiro. A Lisbon institution for more than 60 years, Ramiro is a family run restaurant known for serving the freshest and best seafood around. I got there a bit early and was lucky enough to have a table for one before the dinner rush started. The m

enu was a bit overwhelming, so I asked my waiter for some help. Not to worry he said. To start with, he brought me a cold glass of Sagres and a basket of warm bread. A few minutes later, he showed up with a few house favorites: Monstrous grilled tiger shrimp in spicy olive oil, clams in garlic sauce, a sizzling skillet of garlic shrimp, and crab roe pudding served in its crab shell. You think this sounds good? You have no idea. As if things could get any better, or more interesting, to round things up my waiter brought me a traditional Portuguese dessert; Prego (steak sandwich). Forget the concept of dessert for a minute and focus on the details. The bread’s crusty shell was perfectly baked to hold up anything that came its way, while the soft fluffy crumb gently hugged all the ingredients stuffed inside. The thinly sliced steaks perfectly seared on each side; however tender and ever so slightly pink in the middle. A good portion of lightly toasted garlic and onions mixed into the beef, and the juicy fat drippings melted into the bun like snow on a warm February day, releasing all that flavor into liquid form. A spread of mustard brought the entire concoction to a crusty, juicy, flavorful, tangy perfection. Dessert, as I knew it, was shattered. One thing remained to do that evening. Go back to my hotel and cry myself to sleep for 27 wasted years never having tried a Prego.

Christopher Columbus stopped at this place on his way back to Europe after discovering the new World. Bar

tolomeu Dias took to sea from this point to round the Cape of Good Hope. This is where Vasco da Gama embarked on his voyage to discover a new sea route to India. It was from here, from Belem, that the age of discovery flourished in the 15th and 16th centuries and shaped the world as we know it today. No trip to Lisbon is complete without doing some self-discovery by visiting the 16th century Tower of Belem and the Monument of Discoveries. The next morning, I took a long walk to Belem to immerse myself in the monumental events that took place here a few centuries ago. Come to think of it, I myself am a distant byproduct of those historic events. If it hadn’t been for these discoveries, I may have never moved to the United States and my life, if it were to exist, would have never taken the same path that led me here today. It was truly awe-inspiring to stand there at the shore of the Tagus and marvel at those monuments. I let my mind flow freely with the river imagining Christopher Columbus as he arrived to shore, but my imagination was suddenly cut short by the glorious smells of baked goodies. These goodies came in the form of Pasteis de Nata from the adjacent Confeitaria Nacional. I despise waiting in lines, but my nose and stomach got the best of me. I waited for 20 minutes so I could indulge on what was arguably the best Pastel de Nata in the world.

I took a cab back into the old town to Pink Street; where sailors and prostitutes used to meet back in the olden days. In 2011, the area got a facelift and the street was painted pink. Today, Pink Street is known for its bars, restaurants, and nightlife. It was too early in the day for any clubbing, but I headed there to check out a fishing store known for its canned seafood. Want to buy some bait and tackle? Then why not stay for some wine and tinned seafood. No bait or tackle for me, but I’ll have the food. I sat on a table outside with a perfect vantage point of the street. I ordered a carafe of white wine, anchovies with tomato sauce and peppers, tuna in olive oil, and muscles with garlic served with a basket of fresh bread. All of this was for the whopping price of 15 Euros. The simplest joys of life: wine, canned food, and people-watching on pink streets.

On my third and last day in Portugal, I decided to get out of Lisbon. I met up with a childhood friend, Faris, who moved to Portugal a few years back. He picked me up from the hotel in the morning and we headed to Sintra, a charming town on the outskirts of Lisbon known for its whimsical palaces, extravagant villas, and castle ruins. But first, we headed West, as West as one can go in continental Europe. We took a beautiful costal ride into Cape Roca, the westernmost point of continental Europe. I stood there on the edge of the cliff watching the mi

ghty Atlantic crash its waves on the rocks below. I squinted my eyes and I could see the Statue of Liberty waiving at me, or so I thought. I waved back anyway and screamed hello in case she couldn’t see me, but no one answered. The wind was picking up, so we also picked up our steps and headed back to the car in pursuit of fairytale castles. One could spend a whole a day, or week, exploring Sintra and its magnificent hillside buildings and beautiful natural scenery, but given the time constraint, we chose to visit the Palacio Nacional del Pena. Perched up high on the hills of Serra de Sintra is one of Europe’s finest palaces. Upon seeing this fairytale structure with its vividly colored exterior and beautiful facade, I thought that If I ever decide to leave my modest life behind to live in a castle, this would be it. Back on earth, we toured the castle and took in the gorgeous views from the top. I learned that this was where Portuguese nobility retreated to during the hot summer days. My little heart couldn’t take it for much longer, so I snapped a few pictures and hurried Faris back to the car. When we reached the main gate, I couldn’t help but think of the Terminator for some reason. I turned around, took one last look and thought, I’ll be back.

After a busy afternoon, we headed to my friend’s apartment in nearby Cascais where we met with his wife and watched the most beautiful sunset. For dinner, Faris took me to Baia do Peixe for a wonderful all-you-can-eat seafood restaurant overlooking the Atlantic (yes, more seafood!). Don’t be fooled by the all-you-can-eat, this was not your average seafood. To start with, wine. I was introduced to vino verde, or green wine; a Portuguese wine that originated in the North. Though the wine possessed a slightly greenish hue, the name translates to young wine because the grapes are released without being aged. It was light and refreshing; which tasted wonderful with seafood. For dinner, we ordered a pre fixe all-you-can-eat menu that consisted of 5

seafood courses with soup and salad. I devoured the grilled garlic prawns and slurped my way through the seafood meddle soup by the time the waiter brought the baked turbot filet with coriander and olive oil. I thought I was starting to feel a little full, but I paid my stomach no attention. I thoroughly enjoyed the black bream baked in salt, but I had to push myself through the roasted octopus, not for lack of flavor - for there was plenty - but due to the shortcoming of my stomach. Dessert had to wait for another day. As I sat there on that dinner table enjoying my meal and reminiscing childhood memories with my friend, I looked out to the ocean and a feeling of discontent washed over me for a moment. Knowing that I was leaving tomorrow, I wondered, am I beginning to suffer from PPS (Post Portugal Stress)? She does that to you, Portugal. Once she grabs a hold of you, she will sink her claws into you, and if you are lucky enough, you may never leave. To her I write:

I came here to thee with no expectation

Just a backpa

ck and a heart full of determination

But the day I stepped my foot on here

Oh Lisboa, it was a day filled with cheer

I love your ginja, I love your barrios

give me your bifanas and I’ll never say adios

Your history is rich and your people are cool

He who does not like thee, is a plain old fool

Your sea is bountiful and your mountains are breezy

You make falling in love with you all too easy

I am signing fado, I am longing for you

I miss you so much, have you any clue?

Amman Nights

If I were a breeze, there is nowhere else I’d rather live but in Amman. I’d have the time of my life gliding over its seven hills and down into the valley, caressing the roofs of its white monochrome houses and maneuvering my way through the old narrow streets. I’d race the pigeon flocks in the evening twilight as they make their way into their lofts and I’ll carry the elaborate kites littering the purple sky high above the watchful eyes of families sipping evening tea on their balconies and rooftops. I’d wake up cool and misty at the Citadel, and watch the sun over the horizon laying its silky rays across the hills as far as the eye can see. Then I’d scurry down and carry the warm scents of freshly baked breads and sizzling falafel across the busy streets and in between the traffic jams, blowing past the sugar cane juicers and bustling markets, kissing the church spires and hugging the mosque domes throughout the ancient city. If I were a breeze living in Amman, I’d be the happiest breeze in the world.

For those contemplating their first visit to the Middle East, Amman - and Jordan as a whole – is the perfect introduction. A central crossing point and the birthplace of several civilizations dating back thousands of years, Amman (also used to be named Philadelphia) is a city that is in constant development. There is a stark contrast between its modest east side and modernized west side. Although the city as a whole may feel westernized, it surely maintains its Middle Eastern flair; brimming with mouth-watering food, historical sites, and incredibly hospitable people. Particularly remarkable is Amman’s topography. Built on seven hills, the city offers incredible views of its monochrome buildings stretching endlessly in every direction, visible from virtually any point in the city.

I was born and raised in Amman. Some of my fondest memories as a child was riding the bus from my hometown of Safout, located on the outskirts of the city, all the way to the historic city center. I would walk the old streets looking for sports magazines and ripped mixed tapes/CDs, drink freshly squeezed sugar cane juice, and eat cheap bites before catching the bus back home. These days when things get stressful and I need to think of a happy place, my mind often drifts back to those cherished moments. My memories are so palpable that I often catch myself daydreaming of the perfect day I would spend in Amman. I wake up on a Friday morning in our house in Safout. I take my pot of Turkish coffee on the balcony and ponder the day’s activities. The misty cool air is like a fresh burst of a peppermint every time I breathe in, as my lungs burn with joy. All that pondering makes me hungry and I suddenly think of Ray Charles; breakfast on my mind.

While I can easily grab a taxi or an Uber to the historic downtown, I opt for an adventure on the public bus. A trip that I took hundreds of times over the years ever since I was seven or eight years old. Flagging down a public bus is sometimes so elusive it feels like a treasure hunt. There are no designated bus stops, there are no schedules, and buses leave the main station already full. There’s pleasure in pain, somehow. My destination is Hashem in the historical downtown; a legendary eatery that’s practically unchanged since 1952. I order a creamy plate of hummus with roasted pine nuts, a plate of fool (fava beans) mixed in olive oil and garlic chili sauce, a few golden crispy falafels, a cup of steamy mint tea and a side of pickles, onions, and vegetables. For my perfect bite, I take a piece of a freshly baked pita bread and dip it the hummus, then chase it with a bite of falafel, a piece of pickle, and a sip of mint tea to wash it all down. Party in my mouth. I probably will not finish all of this by myself, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

After this heavy breakfast, one can only think of one sensible thing to do: dessert. I walk around the corner to the original Habibah Sweets for some Kunafah. A traditional dessert originating in Palestine and made with shredded filo pastry, layered with cheese, soaked sugar-based syrup, and topped with pistachio. The simplicity of the ingredients perfectly harmonize, rendering this dessert arguably the pinnacle of Middle Eastern culinary delights. I sit in the alleyway on the cold cement blocks enjoying the breeze and contemplating my next move as I chew down on a half-pound of kunafah. There’s a well-known Arabic proverb that goes like “eat then take a walk”, so I follow suit. I explore the intertwined streets embracing the vibrant chaos that surrounds me.Vendors as far as the eye can see on every corner of every street selling everything that you can ever imagine. . Vendors populate every corner, offering an endless array of goods. A music shop blasts the latest Omar al Abdallat song, while a nearby clothing boutique plays a recording on repeat, announcing its latest sales and promotions. Despite the constant honking, drivers and pedestrians seamlessly navigate the streets, creating a poetic yet chaotic scene. I grab a freshly squeezed sugar cane juice and head towards the Roman Amphitheater, a remarkably well-preserved theater from the 2nd century boasting 6,000 seats at the heart of the city. I walk around it for a bit and then I set my eyes to the Amman citadel across the street. Perched on a hill, the citadel offers a strategic vantage point, revealing the entirety of the city. With remnants dating back to the Bronze Age, each empire has left its mark on this evolving ancient city. A Roman temple, a Byzantine church, and an Umayyad palace bear testament to its rich history. While the historical significance is captivating, the view itself is truly breathtaking. I could easily spend the entire afternoon there, but I feel the need to recharge and pamper myself at a traditional Turkish bath.

I hop in a taxi and make my way to the 3rd Circle where the bath is conveniently located next to Shawerma Reem; the undisputed king of lamb shawarma. The key to perfection lies in the simplicity of the ingredients. Marinated, succulent lamb is carefully layered onto a rotating roasting spit, meticulously tended to by the shawarma master. A freshly baked pita bread is sliced open and slathered with garlic tahini sauce, adorned with a sprinkle of sumac-infused onions, tomatoes, and a generous portion of thinly sliced lamb shawarma, all wrapped "burrito" style. Be warned, this creation is prone to oozing. Despite the long line at this iconic historic stand, which might seem intimidating, it moves swiftly, and your choices are limited to one: lamb shawarma. As I sit on the side of the road thoroughly enjoying my sandwich and carefully positioning my body to avoid and saucy explosions, I contemplate how Mexicans - and the world for that matter - are ought to thank us, Middle Eastern Arabs, for introducing them to the shawarma which they turned into the famous taco al pastor. Lebanese immigrants fleeing war and depression in the region during the 1930 brought the Shawerma to Peubla, Mexico where this al pastor thing all started. A commotion unfolding next to me about a parking spot interrupts my thoughts as I finish my last bite.

With a belly that’s fully satiated, it's time for some rest and relaxation. I meet with some friends and walk over to the bath. This is probably the best $15 I am going to spend all day. Like car on a production line, I go from station to station where my body is cleansed, purified, and rejuvenated, ending up on the message table. Now that all sounds great, until I meet my masseuse, Ahmed. A large Hercules-like figure who’s about to rub me down while I lie down on a slab on marble in a damp dungeon. I get a flashback of the movie “Saw”, then I close my eyes and I pray to ease my suffering. A few moments of pain, and it was all over. I emerge feeling invigorated and stronger than ever. Perhaps the most enjoyable part of the experience lies at the end. Dressed in traditional robes, we gather in a room adorned with blue mosaic tiles, a central fountain, and cushions scattered about for our comfort. We recline, enjoying a few blissful moments, while refreshing beverages like hibiscus iced tea and Turkish coffee are served generously with a steady flow of cigarettes. This ambiance suddenly reminds me of a scene from Titanic, where Rose's fiancé invites the gentlemen for cigars and brandy after dinner. Considering that we survived our bath, hibiscus tea and cigarettes will suffice. Wrapped snugly in my robe, feeling warm, clean, and cozy, I am as content as a baby kangaroo in its mother's pouch. Alas, it is time to bid farewell

As evening descends, we meet up with more friends and head to one of the rooftop bars on Rainbow Street, dubbed as "hipster street," to relish the breathtaking view and witness the infamous Amman sunset. An obligatory made-in-Jordan cold Amstel beer brings the day to a close with a side of gorgeous sunset. Hookah, more drinks, good tunes, and great company are all in attendance. Time seems translucent. It’s approaching mid-night by now and we’re famished. We make our way down the mountain to Al-KitKat, a traditional 24/7 eatery in the old city with an atmosphere that takes you back to the 1950s. However, the true highlight lies in the food, reminiscent of a feast prepared by three grandmothers. The menu includes fresh fish, salads, barbeque, and various classic and traditional dishes. We get a table on the rooftop to enjoy the late-night breeze and order a couple of hookahs to share, a variety of mezze dishes, and carafe or Arak Haddad. This is the epitome of Jordanian and Middle Eastern culture: friends and family gathered around a table on a rooftop, savoring delectable food, cherishing one another's company, and sharing lighthearted banter. As the night is coming to an end - or more accurately as the morning is drawing near – I snap out of my daydream. I then find myself yearning for a day this perfect in my near future, but I fear that times may have changed. I try to console myself with my memories. As a young boy, I daydreamed about my future outside of Amman; outside of Jordan. Today I am only left with the scent of memories of a time and place that may never come back. Knowing all too well that whatever our memories are, the good ones and the bad, all too soon they all blend into a wash, just like water on a sandy beach.

Renaissance and such..

In my humble opinion, if there is a country in the world that has it all, it is Italy. When I say has it all, I mean all: Culture, history, art, fashion, gastronomy, mountain, beach, city, country. Italy’s influence on the world, old and new, is almost unrivaled. Imagine a world without pizza or espresso? For those reasons enjoying any place you visit in Italy is effortless. However, one place, in particular, struck a chord with me - the birthplace of the Renaissance: Florence, or better yet, Firenze.

In 2015, while studying in Spain, I visited Firenze during a four-day weekend.

I had heard of Firenze and its charm, but the main reason I chose to visit was the incredibly cheap flight tickets on Ryan Air. In hindsight, I would pay any amount of money to return to Firenze. It was around 10pm when I arrived at the airport and there was no public transportation, so I split a cab with another traveler to get to my hotel. In an all Italian fashion, the driver was listening to, and I believe cursing at, a soccer match between Fiorentina and Lazio. As we drove through town to my hotel, my excitement was building for tomorrow.

The next morning, although I woke up energized with excitement, I had to do the Italian thing they call espresso. I headed to cafe Gilli for a double espresso and a pastry, counter side. Even if, God forbid, you don’t drink coffee, standing shoulder to shoulder with fellow Italians knocking down their espressos and eating their pastries is an experience not to be missed. Fully caffeinated, I headed to the city’s beating heart - the awe-inspiring Santa Maria Del Fiore Cathedral, also known as the Duomo. The Firenze jewel that sparked the renaissance movement and inspired artists and engineers across Europe. Construction began in 1296 and completed in 1436 at the site of a 7th century church that can still be seen in the crypt of the cathedral. I bought a ticket with access to the cathedral, the tower, and the crypt. While the art and architecture inside and outside the cathedral were impressive, the view from the top was even more breathtaking. A bird’s-eye view of all of Firenze extending for tens of miles in each direction. I spent more than two hours marveling this magnificent structure, then I got hungry.

I knew exactly what I was after - a Florentine steak, better known as Bistecca alla Fiorentina. A phonebook-thick veal steak from the nearby rolling hills of Tuscany. There are a few places that prepare it well, but none other than Tratorria Mario offers such a homey atmosphere. Since 1953, this family run establishment has been dishing out classic Tuscan dishes. If steak isn't your preference, fear not, as they offer an array of mouthwatering dishes ranging from pastas to soups to fish and more. After a 30-minute wait, I was seated at a communal table with a few other diners. It doesn’t matter how you want your steak cooked, because it will surely be served somewhere between rare and medium-rare, however the chef is feeling that day. When the waiter brought the prized cut of meat, I dug in, but then I thought it was a little undercooked for my undeveloped taste. When I tried to send it back to be cooked a bit more, the waiter chuckled and I could swear when he came back 10 minutes later it was still medium-rare. At that point, I manned up and didn’t let up until the T-bone was licked clean. From that moment on, I only eat my steak medium-rare - as every carnivore should. I sat for a while longer to enjoy my wine while contemplating a dessert, but my stomach was begging me to stop. So I got up, thanked the owner for the delicious meal, and set out to the Ponte Vecchio.

The Ponte Vecchio, or the old bridge, is indeed old. It is a medieval stone enclosed arch bridge that extends over the Arno river with numerous shops along its flanks. As I walked across its uneven stones, I couldn’t help but think of the footsteps of those who passed here before me. Dante, Da Vinci, Raphael, Michelanglo. I stopped at one of the overlooks on the bridge to admire the Arno and contemplate the significance of this moment. If only stones can speak, what stories will they tell me? Lost in thought, I was brought back to reality as a small boat passed beneath the bridge. I picked up a Firenze shot glass from one of the vendors and pressed on across the bridge. If there’s one thing I like more than old bridges with thousands of untold stories, it is a great overlook. Across the Arno on a great hill sits the Piazzale Michelangelo offering stunning views of the city. I climbed the hill to the plaza and was greeted by a replica of the statue of David. I admired him for a bit, but I

knew I was going to see the original tomorrow at the Accademia gallery. So, I turned my attention to the breathtaking view; Firenze with all of its glory lay before my eyes. It is one thing to see the Duomo up and close, and a completely different experience to see it dominate the skyline from afar. Thanks to this moment, I have made it a habit to find an overlook at every city I visit. I must have sat there admiring the view for over an hour. The sun was setting, the sky was turning red, and I was getting hungry again.

I descended the hill and headed back into the historic center. I decided to walk around until I found an eatery that piqued my interest. Channeling my inner Ezio Auditore da Firenzethe; I took a few random turns and came across a line of people and what seeme

d like a carryout restaurant. Unknowingly, I had stumbled into what is arguably the greatest sandwich shop in the world. All’antico Vianio, an iconic sandwich shop that makes their own bread and cures their own Italian meats. Besides their ambiance and quality of meats, the secret ingredient is the bread. Schiacciata, a salted bread that can be found mainly in Tuscany. Customers can get creative and fill their Schiacciatas with an endless selection of top-notch cold cuts, cheeses, and homemade creams, or they can get a great combo off the menu. I chose the Favolosa off the menu, loaded with sbriciolona salami, pecorino cream, artichoke cream, and spicy eggplant. I don’t say this lightly, but everyone needs a Favolosa in their life, even vegans. Like a leopard who drags its prey into hiding so it can enjoy it in peace, I grabbed a bottle of Peroni from a nearby store and found a quite spot along the edge of the Arno overlooking the Ponte Vecchio where I could enjoy this marvelous creation. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

Firenze has two main galleries of art: Uffizi and Accademia. Given my time constraint and the long wait for the Uffizi, I chose the Accademia gallery. The Louvre has the Monalisa, the MoMA has the Starry Night, and the Accademia has David. Known for being the first school of art in Europe, the Accademia includes several sculptures by the master Michelangelo, in addition to an extensive collection of 15th and 16th century paintings. I spent some time exploring the gallery before deciding to catch the sun and take in the city one last time before I head out tomorrow.

My last activity in Firenze is perhaps the most famous Italian pastime (after soccer of course); which is to do nothing. I headed back to All’antico Vianio, but this time across the street to their restaurant. They had no tables outside, but as the bible teaches us, ask and you shall receive. So upon request, the host brought me a small round table with a chair and sat them up right outside, effectively blocking most of the sidewalk for my personal enjoyment. I thought to myself, you’ve got to love Italy. I ordered a house meat and cheese platter and a carafe of Tuscan red wine. Five minutes later, my waiter Giuseppe comes back with a huge platter full of prochetta, sbriciolona, capocollo, pancetta, mozzarella, fontina, pecorino, gorgonzola, olives, and some pickles. Thank you, Giuseppe! In Italian they say “dolce far niente”; or the sweetness of doing nothing. Merriam Webster define

s it as the pleasant relaxation in carefree idleness. However it’s defined, this moment was it. I took a piece of prochetta and pressed it against my lips before it melted in my mouth, as if kissing a lover whom I longed for. I tasted the saltiness mixed with the fattiness, I tasted authenticity, I tasted Italy. I lighted up a cigar and got a refill on my carafe. I ate some cheese, I drank more wine, and I nonchalantly puffed on my Romeo y Julietta. Italians passed by giving me a nod of approval as if welcoming me to the “dolce far niente” club. I did this all afternoon until I lost track of time. Suddenly, I felt disconcerted. I realized that this special moment is soon ending, and I am heading back tomorrow. I started taking mental images so I can enshrine this experience deep down into my hippocampus, so whenever I miss Firenze, I can go back to memory lane and relive the sweetness of doing nothing. It was dark now, and I started to recognize some of the people who passed by earlier. As I was getting ready to leave, Giuseppe showed up with another carafe on the house. “Stay my friend, stay” he told me. I thought to myself, no need to ask twice Guiseppe. I sat my ass down, as if I believed that by staying a little longer I could deceive time and convince it to pass me by, to come back some other day, some other life.