in europe the planes are noisy. especially on the way to italy. they talk talk talk. get up to find one another, stand in the aisles and talk.
i want to desperately to converse. i stink and it's obvious.
the wine is a bordeaux. i watch the man next to me drink, contemplating the label. i watch how he pours: only after he's emptied the glass, which he pours only a small way full. i do the same. itàs not very good. i imagine myself saying "che buono, si o no?" i imagine him saying, "no." i imagine myself laughing. "è francese." that way they know i'm on their side. i'm on the inside.