The Shoelace

I am currently planning a trip to Italy. Lake Como, the Italian Riviera, and La Vita Bella.

It has been twenty-one years since my wife and I have visited Italy as a couple. That first trip was our honeymoon – a whirlwind affair involving a bus tour of the major cities and historical attractions.

This trip will be more relaxed. Just the two of us together in sunny Italy.

Doing my research, it occurs to me that my trip planning strategy is born out of many past experiences with travel. My technique sharpened by some truly massive failures and a slew of godawful experiences.

One must have a plan, I think. A rough outline at the very least.

“What about serendipity,” you lament. “What about the joy of life without plans. Just a couple of huckleberry friends, footloose and fancy-free, happily skipping down the endless road to some fabulous rainbow’s end.”

Let me tell you something. This isn’t a Disney movie and as my old boss used to say “hope is not a plan.”

Grow up.

No plan? Well then. Let’s explore that.

Tell me, have you ever been on a death march for dinner?

I have.

Let me paint this picture for you oh Captain Whimsical.

The following is an amalgamation of several instances when I failed to have a plan.

This is a cautionary tale, dear friends. Pay heed.

THE UNPLANNED MARCH

You have walked along the crowded sidewalks for ninety-minutes in the heat of the summer evening. You both are starving.

It is Saturday night. You didn’t make a reservation. You thought you would just “walk around and pop in a place.” You would simply “sit at the bar if there were no tables available.”

Alas, every restaurant is booked solid. The food truck has a line around the block two times over. Hell, you notice that even the rats are lined up to get into the sewer.

Peaking in the front door at several places, you notice that the bar seating looks like the floor of the New York Stock exchange on a high volume trading day in 1987. Patrons, five deep, holding up their money and yelling out like they are trying to short sell pork bellies.

Why is it so busy? What is going on? Is it V-J day or something? What did you miss? Why in God’s name didn’t you book a reservation? There is literally nowhere that does not have a two-plus hour wait.

Except one place. The only place in the whole damn town that has availability.

You know the place.

The Empty Place.

(Queue the ominous organ music.)

Now there is nothing particularly wrong with the way The Empty Place looks. It looks like a fine little restaurant. There are no indications as to why The Empty Place is, in fact, empty. It’s not a dirty pub nor does it have some goofy thematic façade. Alas, no one is there. No one is eating at The Empty Place.

Now, you are keenly aware that The Empty Place has terrible food. You’re not stupid. You know this.

C’mon! It’s the only empty restaurant in a ten block area! Of course the food is terrible.

But then there’s that hostess out front. That damn condescending hostess who smiles at you each time you walk by. She knows you are on a death march. She knows you get more hungry and tired by the minute.

She smiles an inviting smile. She’s wearing you down. She will get the best of you. It’s only a matter of time.

You half jog up an alley because you thought you saw the glimmer of a neon sign. Maybe it’s a quaint little café off the beaten path. A place where the crowds haven’t extended their reach. A secret spot. A glimmer of hope for weary souls on their march of death to find sustenance.

Nope. It’s an after hours club called Midnight Dick.

“Maybe they have good food”, you think. “The Midnight Dick Chop Salad? The Midnight Dick Burger?”

Disappointed, you walk back down to the main drag. Throngs of people wait outside of restaurants. Like refugees waiting for the train out of the Gulag to Istanbul.

You look back down the street toward The Empty Place. No lines. No crowds. Only that smiling hostess stands outside the door. Beckoning.

“Surely the chicken finger basket and fries at the Empty Place are decent,” you think with forced optimism. “Surely they have beer, wine, and spirits? Who cares? We could just have beers and chicken wings and have a great time right?”

Worn down. Worn out. Famished. You acquiesce, shuffle up to the smiling hostess, and request a table at The Empty Place.

She looks you in the eye and says “do you have a reservation?”

(“Are you F@#$#@ kidding me!!!!”)

She leads you through the door and toward a table. Walking in, you notice another table of people near the back. Thank goodness. It’s not just you. Some other group of weary pioneers have chosen The Empty Place as well. For whatever reason, this makes you feel more secure. Safety in numbers perhaps.

You quickly realize the table you saw is full of the unoccupied wait staff. Sitting around playing dumb card games like Pass The Trash. Killing time until their tipless shift ends and they can go out boozing at Midnight Dick.

One of them looks over as you are being seated, puzzled at your arrival.

The waiter walks over to your table, “hi, welcome to Noops Barn Shack. I’m Stevie. Can I start you both with something from the bar?”

You ask for a beer and cocktail list and Stevie hands you a drink menu. Turns out all their beer is made in house and all their cocktails are batch style, served on tap.

The menu reads like the brew master really doesn’t enjoy the job. The beers are called things like “Noops Nopes Somabitch Stout, Bastard Brew Biterbeer, and Krack ‘O Dawn Anxiety Ale.”

You settle on a “For Christ’s Sake Dunkel” and your companion gets something from the cocktail list called “Rain Clouds Forever.”

The menu is typical of a place that is a fusion of Mexican, Austrian, and Pan-Asian food. Pinto Bean Spring Rolls with Sauerkraut. General’s Pancho Villa Chicken with Knockwurst. Peking Duck Enchiladas served over a Pork Knuckle.

It’s a point and shoot menu. Just point at something and live with it. You are starving and it really doesn’t matter because everything looks just terrible.

To your outright surprise, the food and drinks are WAY worse than you thought. Your beer tastes like bathwater. Your companion’s cocktail tastes like lavender soot. The food has no flavor. Like none. It’s like eating air if air had texture.

There’s very little conversation over dinner. You sip on your bathwater and your companion takes tiny bites of the Schnitzel Dumplings that were on special.

Everything on your table smells and tastes like failure.

Finishing up, you pay the bill. You are aware that you are still the only patrons in the restaurant. As you exit the door to leave, you notice a weary looking couple with furrowed brows looking at the posted menu outside the restaurant. The smiling hostess stands next to them in silence. Mocking them.

You walk past the weary couple to make your leave. As you do, you lean in close to them and whisper, “you have to do it. You have no choice.”

Sauntering down the sidewalk into the night, you hear the weary couple begin to weep. Their tears are full of shame and regret.

The air grows crisp and the night opens up to you as you weave your way down the busy street. The worst is over. You begin walking at a quicker pace. One with purpose toward a much brighter trip planning future that lies ahead.