The Last Focaccia Standing
Our journey launched at 12:04-ish-pm when we both escaped the eternal pit of making money for a corporate company and seeing a fraction of the profits in return – aka capitalism.
As destiny would have it, we were both on the same train to Heathrow, Ednora was at the front, me at the back. A fitting metaphor of our relationship, however you look at it.
The flights were smooth, apart from the piece of shit chicken we were forced to ingest in Rome, which I’ll share with you now. Just before we ate this fast food - delivered via the anus of Satan - Petrit, one of the two people traveling with us to Albania, and, incidentally, Ednora’s cousin, regaled us with his time spent in Italy and how he hated Italian food. I genuinely thought it was actually impossible for a human being to hate Italian food in Italy. He described his experience as traipsing from town to town, baguette to shitty baguette. We mocked him, saying ‘how could you hate food from the country of pizza and pasta?’ we asked, mockingly. He simply replied, ‘if it wasn’t spaghetti Bolognese, it was baguette.’ We continued to mock, mock, mock, mock. Oh how we mocked. Then we ate a baguette in Rome’s airport, and how I truly regretted the mocking. I had mentioned that we were forced; I do need to clarify the term ‘forced’. It wasn’t a Clockwork Orange-esque moment where our orifices were forced open and had poorly constructed chicken baps shoved into our gobs. No. It was basically the only establishment in the airport which sold stuff that would fill us up. My favourite part was when I asked for the last focaccia. They took it to the oven/microwave but dropped it on the way. The man looked up guiltily at me and I could see that he was undecided on which angle to take with this new situation. He had two options:
We are fresh out of focaccia
Are you still OK to eat this?