Full Mississippi's

What is this extra second? The cadence is off. Usually it’s a good one Mississippi, two Mississ, three Mis, release. But you didn’t. And I didn’t because you didn’t. Par for the course, you lead, I follow. These are full Mississippi’s.

I remember a couple of other full Mississippi’s. But not in this context.

There was that time in Florence. I’d never travelled solo before. I didn’t tell anyone that I was. I didn’t think I needed to. It was only for two days. And half of it was travel time. I landed in Rome. Staying for the night and hopping on the train to Florence. I spent my first night in that hostel bunk bed in Rome, lying still, as if I were a taxidermied version of myself. One eye closed, the other staring at the wall. The muscles behind my ear tensing at every patter of rain or shifting in cheap sheets. Thinking “Jesus Christ, I probably should’ve at least told one person what city they could search for my body.”

Nice thing was, I was early for my train the next morning. Left me with enough time to grab breakfast after fumbling around for an hour. I was trying to decipher the difference between the local and regional trains. In the last two minutes of that hour, I asked an employee, who of course spoke perfect English, and he explained it to me pronto. I’m hopeful it was the sleep deprivation.

The first step into Florence brought back the original adventure time giddiness. I’d taken the train back in time. I felt like I was renting DaVinci’s beach house, just after he had left. I could follow the footprints he left in the sand, step-by-step around the entire city. He led me to a restaurant and coaxed me into a truffle ravioli and a full bottle of wine for lunch.

You were supposed to get in that night. I couldn’t wait to play the role of the stumbling tour guide. Until I got your first drunk text, you were going to be late to the airport, and then the second, you were trapped in the line at security, and then the third, you missed the flight. But I was still in good spirits. Leonardo knew his way around the city and after a day of drunken wandering, I felt like a local. The thoughts of what tomorrow could be kept me up that night.

When you arrived the next morning, I was wide awake, almost manic. Leonardo and I spent all night on the itinerary. Hungover, you were not as enthusiastic. You appeased me. We retraced every step into each historic corridor, across the medieval bridge and up endless stairs. Each place I was equipped with the one fact I read off the Wikipedia page and still remembered from the day before.

After I dragged you around Florence all day, you said you knew a place. Somewhere Leonardo was not even aware of. We stood outside of their apartment building, watching the first episode of Jersey Shore in Florence. I had never seen it. You were surprised. You felt the need to repay the education I had given. The difference was, you were much more well read in the subject.

I ate good that day. I couldn’t believe I had come to Italy with someone not excited about the food. The pasta didn’t come with a lime or a bottle of Valentina. You took this as a personal affront. So as we wound down and headed home the Golden Arches were singing their sweet siren songs. I’d imagine they’d sound something like a Daughtry cover of “Take Me Home, Country Roads.”

Back in the Airbnb you popped open the Gran Crispy McBacon, while I popped open the windows. I couldn’t believe that you had found this place. We were looking out over the Piazza del Duomo. We were “the girl next door” to the Duomo! And sitting down next to you on the bed, looking at this menacing structure, I realized that I had used it all up. Was it the lack of sleep? Reality setting in? The McDonalds?

This was only our first day. It lived up to expectations. Nothing went wrong. You did nothing wrong. My dreams, now my reality. But I had used it all up. You looked at me. You understood.

One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi, Four Mississippi…

Those I understood. You felt the need for the excess. But these– I had just done that dumb cowboy impression. You gave the obligatory pity laugh. Now we’re on four Missis…

The other time was in Athens. There are no Greek Gods in this Athens, but there are plenty of Greek Dawgs. One in particular brought us to Athens that night, my cousin Jack. It was the semiannual gathering of the Greek Dawgs. A celebration I can only imagine was supposed to pay homage to their namesake’s god, Dionysus.

In hindsight, it’s funny we were even there. I get lost at those things and end up in a corner texting you some “ingenious” observation I’ve made about white women and mahjong. You were never interested in going to them in the first place. But that night, it was a reason to see each other.

It had been thirty minutes since we'd arrived. Per the protocol, I found myself lost. Somehow, both you and Jack had disappeared from my periphery. I wandered to the bar, head down, texting you both trying to establish my location. As I was calibrating, I heard a familiar voice with an unfamiliar accent. “Hey pretty lady, can I buy you a drink?” You always know the right thing to say.

We spent the next hour wading through half-empty Natty Light cans, searching for Jack. I had to let him know we had other plans. By the time we found him, he was too far into his game of mahjong to leave with us. I was sure that we would see him downtown.

In Athens, there was no need to consult DaVinci. I had studied this place meticulously. I concocted the perfect tasting menu. The stops at times may seem directionless, some trivial, some excessive, but have faith this is my Doritos Locos Gordita Crunch. Consider me, Thomas Keller, and I will be serving you a four course meal of the perfect night in downtown Athens.

Our first course of the evening may seem unassuming. I’ll concede that could be said about every course. I’ll only say it about this one. We started our tasting menu at Little Italy. Funny that the smaller version had pizza you liked. We had the place to ourselves. A perfect escape from the tipsy twelve-year-olds outside. The $5 pitcher tastes much better with the residual pizza flour sprinkled in. We only stayed for a couple of slices and the pitcher. As I planned, we left rejuvenated.

I thought the second course may have been more for me than you. Wonderbar was calling. I needed to get at least one– maybe five games of Galaga in. You liked their Spicy Margarita. So much so, I had to get my own. You didn’t care for Galaga, but you didn’t mind a few spins around Rainbow Road. I didn’t know you were Danica “Toad” Patrick. Turns out it was just as much for you. I had to drag you out midrace. The third course was time sensitive.

We’d reached the entree. The most important course on the menu. A concert at The Rooftop of the Georgia Theater with an unknown band. I thought this would easily be the most appetizing stop on the menu, but it wasn't shaping up to be. As the band performed sound check, the crowd filtered in. I didn’t know they had only advertised to the local retirement homes. We grabbed drinks, and joined the geriatrics at our own table off to the side. I worried I’d overcooked this one– It was a tough and dry room. But the band. The band! Your eyes lit up at the first strum. A pop punk cover band playing all of your favorites. You grabbed my hand and dragged me to dance right in front of the band. The looks from the old people were my favorite part. I don’t think you noticed.

The margaritas started showing their dance moves about three songs in. I thought they were going to kick us out of that place. We left before they could. Now it was time to bring it home with a sweet treat. I will concede, this one took some explanation. It wasn’t just a bell. It was the bell. On the walk over, I told you how people would come from all around to ring the bell for something they were celebrating. Most of the time, it was after a big win at Sanford or a graduation. That night we were celebrating life. You hiked up your black jeans and really went for it a couple of times. I forgot you were a Coronita. You were determined. You took five big steps back, blew into your arms like Spongebob, and booked it. You jumped. I caught you.

One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi, Four Mississippi…

That one felt natural. It was in the moment. We’re at Five Mississi.. now.

Your head pressed against my chest feels a little heavier. Your grip around my back is a little tighter. And that breath. It was deep. I don’t think I’ve heard it before.

You’re letting go, I’ll follow. You look up at me as you pull away. You say “Goodbye Polar Bear.”

You walk down to your car. Quick, think of a joke or something light. This feels too solemn.

“Text me when you get home now, ya hear?”

Not the cowboy voice again. You look back and give the obligatory laugh, but this one sounds painful.

“Alright partner.”

You tip the invisible ten gallon hat and duck into the car with the hat still on. I laugh for a moment. A brief moment. You pull off. I watch until you're gone. But I don’t move. I just stand there.