(2) Memory (Week Five)

I’m just now four hours in, four hours into Georgia and a language that should sound out to something similar to the words I think—but when I shake some leftover coins cupped in my palm, I only think Spoleto. Back to the first day, too afraid to stare away from the bus window, from the winding streets paved by cobblestone, from the apartments stacked on top of and next to one another, moss and history part of the stones. I’m right back to our west wing apartment—where four girls and guys intertwined branches, grew into the familiar shape of a family. After my family picked up their traveled at the airport, we went to Copeland’s, pasta with a Cajun-style. I smirked at my plate, bloated by crab crakes and knock-off linguini, while worrying both sides of a euro between my forefinger and thumb. There, I found us, for the first time, inside Vincenzo’s, the place we’d later make a haunt—found us inside a shot of espresso, a cornetto con crema, in front of the Italian guy we’d later call friend, the guy one of us would later call a little more. Behind the counter, here at Copeland’s, the bar tender offers me a glass of red wine, says the bottle came straight from Italy. I tell him no mi piace and flick the euro his way.