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Most Sundays, I'm the one in charge of opening the restaurant. This means I have to be there at 6:30, which means I wake up at 5. Driving to work takes me a little more or a little less than five minutes, and I don't shower or make too much of my appearance on these mornings. The real reason I jump out of bed at 5 in the morning is so I can eat breakfast and take a little trip via public television. After my eggs are fried or my pancakes are puffed, I sit down to breakfast with Rick Steves...and Rudy Maxa, shortly thereafter. It's not really important where they take me or even the travel wisdom they impart. The best part is seeing the sights, remembering the places I've been and planning for the trips ahead. And actually, I spend the first few languid hours at work daydreaming about Paris or Istanbul, trying to be anywhere but there.
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Luke brought the Beatles into my life. I was in love with Luke, and he was in love with the Beatles, so of course they became important to me. That was somewhere around fourth grade, or sixth... Who knows? I was in love with him for a long time. It seems strange that he was the first to really put them on my radar and not my parents. That was their generation after all. Hell, my grandpa took my aunt Phyllis to see the Beatles play at Busch Stadium in '66. Can you imagine? But rock 'n' roll was never really their thing. Anyway, Luke told me that once when he was home sick from school, he was laying on the couch listening to Magical Mystery Tour while his dad was in the kitchen making a rhubarb pie. Or maybe his dad was singing something from the album, or else Luke had been holding the record sleeve, thinking, "Holy shit, this is trippy.... And they're on to something." Luke couldn't remember the circumstances, but that album made him think of being home from school and discovering the Beatles while his father was in the kitchen. As for me, I still associate the Beatles with Luke, and vice versa, but now, whenever someone mentions rhubarb pie, I think of Mr. Prize.
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Our last night in Rome, the night before we flew home (I think it might have been a Wednesday?), my sister and I walked around the city after dinner to see all the tourist spots lit up. We stopped by the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps before making our way to the Colosseum, giddy on wine and the anticipation of being home. Across the street from the ruins, in front of the metro entrance and next to one of Rome's many accessible fountains, a man approached me. He looked to be 30-something, wearing simple clothes and not carrying anything but his phone. In Italian he asked if I wouldn't mind taking his picture with the Colosseum in the background. Flattered to have been taken for a concittadina--or at least someone who might understand his language--and high on the charms of the Eternal City, I eagerly agreed. He handed me his phone, and I pointed to a button, asking, "Questa qui?" This one here? He smiled just as wide as I surely was, and I probably counted to three in Italian, just to really lay it on thick. He thanked me and went on his way and I rejoined my sister, proudly explaining the exchange she had seen. I imagined the man sending the picture as an SMS to a girlfriend or mother somewhere in rural Italy, and I liked thinking that I'd be there too, in a way.
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