boccaderlupo

I dreamed my brother and I were inside a sandwich shop that bore our family surname. We were in some other state, and were amazed to find our name out there (it's a relatively rare name from Magna Graecia; my uncles found the Hellenized version of it inscribed in the ruins of Pompeii, and some Greek friends claim they know people who share that name out thataways). At any rate, we were excited to get some delicious sandwiches. We waited on a rather long line that stretched up through a wood-paneled interior to a humble counter, beyond which extended a bustling kitchen as far as the eye could see. Behind us in line was a short, rotund guy, abbronzato with grey hair, dressed all in black with a heavy gold chain around his neck and glasses. He was amiable enough, but hopped from side to side and gave off a particular edge like he was some kind of wiseguy, and he seemed primed to cut you in line. We made small talk with him, and once we arrived at the counter, I scrutinized the menu and asked the guy to go ahead of us, which he did willingly.

I vaguely had the feeling that I had been to this place before, but the menu didn't resonate with me. In particular I was looking at sandwich #6, but it wasn't what it used to be. My brother ordered, and I decided to order it anyways. We thought about chatting up the guy at the counter about the unusual name of the place and how it was our family name, but the staff seemed busy to distraction. We got our sandwiches and left.

Outside someone began telling us about a pub or cafe back in my father's old hometown, long ago and far away. It was apparently a dangerous place but my dad loved going there, and there was some legend about him falling backwards off the bar after having drank too much grappa. (Grappa, incidentally, is gross, and in real life my father did not frequent bars of any kind.)

My brother and I were on a sandy plateau high up outside a town, playing calcio a.k.a. soccer with a bunch of other adults and kids, including my son. There seemed to be scores of people playing. The weather was cool and enlivening. Even holding the sandwiches, my brother and I managed to make some pretty crisp passes in a triangle formation. I reached the edge of the plateau, and someone behind me hollered for me not to kick the ball over into the Mare Adriatico. Of course I punted it good and hard, and it flew off into the sea, a luminous orb tossed amid the waves. There was an outcry and then silence as folk wandered over to watch the ball bobbing out there in the surf. But Fortune picked up the ball and brought it slowly to the shallows, where it finally washed ashore and up on a sand dune.

I scrambled down the hill toward it, and raised the ball triumphantly above my head. A cheer went up.