Quick-Stop Pizza

The line for the pizza was long, but the Italian cashier spoke clear English.  We were at a rest-stop that cooked reputable pizzas.  Unfortunately, another bus full of tourists stopped with us.  Our tour manager allotted us forty-five minutes to relieve and refresh ourselves.  After using the loo, I discovered the line had stretched the entire length of the store.  I tagged onto the end and hoped the customers in front of me would do their best to expedite this process by paying attention and claiming their pizza slices in an orderly fashion. 

Periodically, I checked the time on my phone and anxiously watched the Italian women shoving pies into the oven and slicing the cooked ones.  As I slowly crept toward the front of the line, I calculated how much time I’d have to shovel two massive slices down my gullet.  If I were lucky, I’d have fifteen minutes, which would be sufficient to savor my food.  By the time I claimed my food, I had less than ten minutes.  This may be enough time for a normal person, but eating quickly is not a skill in my repertoire.

One slice of margherita was cheesy, yet orderly.  The other was a saucy mess.  I decided to tackle the latter in the event that, if I didn’t finish both in time, I could fold up the neat slice and finish eating it on the bus without spilling sauce on my pants. 

Equipped with a fork and knife, I began stuffing large bites into my mouth while my eyes constantly monitored the time.  The tomato sauce was a fresh, soft layer like feathery snowfall.  Its liquid-like nature enabled me to swallow big pieces without too much concern of choking to death.

I was nearly halfway through the soggy slice when a few Americans sat beside me.  They were on a separate Contiki tour with a shorter itinerary.  I met a few of them while waiting for my laundry to dry inside a dysfunctional machine in the south of France.  They started asking me questions about my trip, but I only offered curt answers.  A giant wad of barely-chewed dough puffed out my cheek as though I were sucking on a jawbreaker.  

I had no time to converse.  I was concentrating on enjoying my first authentic Italian slice of margherita pizza.  Given my time constraint, my thoughts were purely mechanical:  chew, chew, swallow, hurry up because I don’t want to be stranded at a truckstop in Godknowswhere, Italy. 

My rushed meal epitomized the downsides of traveling with a tour group.  You have to follow the itinerary or else you’ll be left behind.  We get full days to do what we please in the major cities, but there’s always a deadline that forces us to rush so we don’t miss the bus.  I prefer to wander around at my own pace with little to no reservations, and I enjoy eating slowly.  No matter how hard I try, I am unable to masticate and digest food in a rapid manner. 

With a group tour, you may have to sprint through a few cities and devour your food if you have many tasks to check off your bucket list.  The urgency certainly keeps things fresh, and we don’t take much for granted because we are constantly aware of how much time we’ve got left until we have to catch the bus.  We may never have the money or the time to come back to these places like Paris and Barcelona, so we see and do everything we can while we have the opportunity.  Because of this uncertainty, we truly maximize our vacation by avoiding lazy days.    

When you are on vacation, however, you shouldn’t frequently check your watch.  Ideally, you should free yourself from this burden.  You should escape the constant demands of being somewhere at such and such a moment.  The hour and the day should cease to matter.  Time should dissolve into a vague haze.

On mainland, urban America, however, the rhythm of time has been tattooed on our minds and in our bodies.  However, I suffer from chronic tardiness and cannot find the cure.  Every job I’ve held, I’ve been late enough to be threatened by management.  I always say I’ll get here earlier next time, and I will, for a while.

I am not late to be disrespectful or defiant.  I am usually late because I become engulfed into books and can’t tear myself away until I’ve found a good stopping point.  I try to fully appreciate every minute of my free time, and, during this process, I lose track of it.  I attempt to arrive at work right on the hour, but sometimes I miss. 

During my previous job, I often explained my tardiness by saying that time is only a record of the earth’s rotation and our planet’s coordinate on its trip around the sun.  I’m not always in sync with the cycles of our galaxy, but I’ve learned to accept this.  Many of us are trapped by the incessant ticking of the clock, so we try to accomplish as much as we can with every second we have left until we can no longer hear the heralding chime of another hour gone.  I would prefer to use a sundial that couldn’t clearly distinguish the exact minute.

 

At the tiny truckstop in Italy, my time was up, and the bus was about to leave.  I folded the neat slice in half and tucked a piece of crust inside the cheesy cavern like a skinny man cocooned inside a sleeping bag.  I grabbed a few napkins to catch grease drippings and rushed outside to hop on board with the rest of the group. 

On the first day of the tour, we learned the rules, one of which is that dairy products are not permitted on the bus.  If spilled milk bakes into the seat under the heat of the sun, a rancid stench will permeate the entire coach, which is not fun for anybody. 

The pizza contained cheese.  I was prepared to throw it away if my food were denied access, but I hate wasting food for budgetary and moral reasons.  If I promised not to make a mess, I could bring my pizza on board.  I chewed each bite slowly, the only way I know how, and looked out the window as the green mountains whizzed by.