Expiration Dating (2 page)

Looking at the crumpled list, I realized I’d made the right choice.
I was relieved I hadn’t slept with Anton; I wasn’t waiting for marriage, but I didn’t want my first time to be with a jerk, either.

Before I could change my mind, I
selected outfits to pack in my carryon. I compiled a diverse set of tennis shoes and sweatpants, my usual uniform. For good measure I threw in a few sparkly dresses. I added three hoodies as an afterthought; they were the same sweatshirt, just in varying colors.

I zipped my bag, confident I’d be comfortable in my new home. I crawled into bed wearing a pair of track shorts and a tee-shirt, in order to make the trip to the airport less stressful. With my nerves brewing near the surface, I didn’t want the burden of having to choose something to wear on the plane.
Sleeping in versatile clothes meant I wouldn’t have to dress in the morning.

Genius.

Chapter Three

My trip couldn’t be classifi
ed as a total success thus far; I’d hoped it would start out a bit more glamorous. Instead, I’d blinked and found myself halfway across the Atlantic. 

First off, it
was my birthday. I’d expected some sort of fanfare, or at least well wishes from the flight attendants. I realized somewhere over the Atlantic, though, my birthday was lost at sea. I tapped the flight attendant’s shoulder to order my first legal drink, but chickened out and asked for a tomato juice instead.

I didn’t even like tomato juice.

I had no idea what time zone we were in, let alone the hour and I didn’t want to get reprimanded in front of all the other passengers trying to order a drink while still under-age. I came to terms with it; by the time I landed in Milan, I’d be twenty-one and a day with no one the wiser.

“Sorry,
sorry
.” I scrunched my nose; the soy sauce stain spread faster than I imagined possible over the lawyer’s khaki pants. When he didn’t respond, I glanced closer at the man sitting next to me. His eyes were closed and his chest heaved with deep breaths.

What luck!
I slid down, trying to disappear into the darkened airplane cabin. I placed the crushed sushi tray on the floor to hide the evidence of the Kikkoman wrapper. I was reluctant to discard sushi of any kind, but the plastic grass on the tray had long since withered due to the freezing air conditioning. The roll itself was melty.

I hesitated for
a second before giving the tray a little kick. I was rewarded with a glare from the brunette woman in the row ahead. Maybe if she loosened her ponytail she wouldn’t be so cranky. Her eyes looked almost Asian with her slicked back ‘do, and her bright red lips were drawn tighter than a suction cup. She did have nice hair, though.

How did
she get it to shine like a horse’s mane?

Mine had a tendency to fall a little bit limp no matter how much
hard earned money I spent on volumizing shampoos.

I
expelled the air in my lungs and tried to get comfortable, an impossible task. The now-stained lawyer monopolized my left arm, and I didn’t want to touch the man to my right. He was drooling, mouth open, face plastered to the window. I closed my eyes.

I couldn’t sleep. I was a ball of excited energy. Having never left the country before, I could only imagine the glory of going to live in Italy. The fashion capital of the world; I could see it now. I’d come back to the states with a beautiful Italian accent, designer handbags, and sparkly jewels. They surely just hand that stuff out there, since there’s so much of it.

I could dream, r
ight?

And the food. As a self-
declared food addict, I forced myself to promise I wouldn’t come back fifty pounds heavier. I’d need to fit into my new designer clothes, after all.

Oh, n
ot to be forgotten; the men. The beautiful Italian men, tall dark and handsome like the movies. I knew I’d find the man of my dreams here, I just hoped he’d be a prince. That would make Anton le’Douche jealous. I’d come back to the States and say something like, “Oh, hello, dear American friends, I’m just stopping back on the way to my boyfriend’s palace in Italy.”

Did the Italians use the phrase boyfriend?

I planned to find out.

My mind
whirled for hours, but at some point I must have dozed off. I stirred awake, chilled to the bone and frozen in my seat. As I glanced out the window I tried lifting an arm to wipe my watery eyes. Both appendages were trapped by large men, and I felt more helpless than ever. I’d been dreaming about the birthday party I’d have had if I stayed in Minnesota. I laid my head against the pillow and felt sad for the first time. I let myself cry, tasting salt as the tears slid down my face.

Hours later, we bumped down the runway and screeched to a stop. I rubbed my sore neck.

W
hy was everyone clapping?

I joined in
to not seem out of place. Since there was no explanation, I assumed it must be an Italian tradition to clap for the pilot.
Isn’t it his job to get us grounded safely?
If that was the case, I wanted applause next time I turned in a paper for biology.

As the clapping calmed down, I
strained my neck looking at the people sitting close by. I caught the eye of a curly haired man a few seats in front of me and he shrugged, appearing just as confused. I welcomed the company; we could be stumped together.

I groaned when I stood
, after what seemed like years on the runway. I’ve never understood why everyone stands up while they’re waiting to get out of the plane; there’s the awkward space under the overhead luggage storage that’s not tall enough to stand, not tall enough to sit, just tall enough to crouch and get a kink in your neck.

To make the experience more pleasant, there
were at least eight babies screaming while their mothers juggled strollers, baggage and husbands. During this unpleasant process, I made eye contact with the same American guy as before. He raised his eyebrows. The moment ended as traffic moved forward. He jumped to action and grabbed my suitcase from its compartment.

“Have a great trip,” he said. I nodded and smiled, too exhausted to speak.

“Come
on
, Andrew. What about my stuff?” whined his travel companion. I gave myself a pat on the back for kicking her seat. I eyed the suitcase in Andrew’s hands, a beautiful, light pink Louis Vuitton travel case. My dinged-up, army green piece of cloth paled in comparison.

My gaze migrated
to her two-hundred dollar jeans, designer rain boots and matching silk blouse; this girl traveled in style, I hated to admit. I wasn’t as subtle as I’d thought with my assessment; she returned the glance, giving my neon yellow Minnesota sweatshirt and running shorts a judgmental stare. The outfit must not qualify as proper flying attire according to her standards.

Or maybe it was the large coffee stain I couldn’t manage to wash out. Bleach pens
had been a major failure, leaving a brownish blob over the “
I
” in my shirt. Maybe they just didn’t work after letting the stain sit for a week and a half during finals. Either way, the jury was still out. I once heard that there are two types of people in this world: those that dress up to fly, and those that don’t. I was a proud supporter of the latter.

After some more jostling and uncomfortable squeezes down the narrow aisle, I emerged into the airport lobby. I hadn’t expected the lunchtime bustle
as my body felt it should be midnight. I spun in a slow circle, trying to get my bearings.

I
prayed for the excitement to hit me.
You’re in Italy! You’re in Italy!
The saying ran through my head like an Olympian on a track, but I just didn’t feel any different. I’d hoped there would be some ‘grand realization’ that I was in Italy, some overwhelming feeling of ecstasy. Instead, there was just exhaustion mixed with confusion.

I talked myself down from a panic and located the baggage claim sign
. I shuffled over and waited for the wheel to start pumping out oversized suitcases. Next to me, an Italian family welcomed an au pair, a young girl seemingly overwhelmed by the greeting from three rambunctious kids.

The smallest child, a chubby-cheeked cutie that could be the next Gerber baby
, waddled over and grabbed at the ends of my jacket. I looked at the parents, trying to gauge whether they wanted their son back or not. They were occupied with their other children, so I knelt down.

“Hi, buddy. What’s your name?
”

The toddler
gurgled and reached for the camera in the side pocket of my backpack. It was Tess’ disposable gift. I took out the green striped Kodak and let the child play with it. He ooh-ed and ahh-ed in a foreign baby language, and I snickered when he snapped a picture of himself by accident. Tess wouldn’t be expecting that on the roll.

He started to cry, blinded by the flash. His parents noticed their son’s absence and came to scoop him up, trying to wrestle the camera from his strong fingers. Another flash exploded and someone bumped into my knapsack, spinning me
off balance.

The curly haired man from the plane shielded his eyes. “Sorry about that, the flash startled me.”

“No problem,” I said. I waved the mother and child away. “He can keep the camera.”

“That was nice of you,” the American said. He was wearing a tight tee-shirt, showing off his physique. He smirked, “I didn’t know they made disposable cameras anymore.”

“It was a gift from a friend…” I thought of Tess’ instructions. An American and a toddler would be considered
no good
for sure. “It was meant to be a joke.”

“I’m sure
the kid will love it.” A smile took over his features.

“I hope so. Well, see you, I guess.”

I watched him stride back towards his high-fashion clad girlfriend.
What a strange pair.

Chapter Four

I yanked my suitcases to the outside path feeling like a brick was added with every step. When I summited the staircase, I saw a sign labeled IOS - my program’s name. It stood for International… actually, I wasn’t sure; it didn’t matter. The leader of the group stepped forward. I rolled my lips inward. He was tall, blond and thin. What happened to the tall, dark and handsome adage? I located the Italian flag, reassuring myself I’d been on the correct flight, and turned back.

“Hello, I am Luca. I am teacher. I
help you in Italy,” he said in broken English.
When did they start growing them blond?
I glanced at the other Americans joining the group. He checked our names off a clipboard list, and we were separated into groups based on our assigned housing. I followed the crowd outside. Luca tugged on my arm and pointed me towards an empty cab.

Maybe my roommates weren’t here yet?
I plunked my things on the empty seat next to me and glued my eyes out the window. My thoughts jarred back to the present as the cabbie screeched away from the curb, into the insane Milanese traffic. Vespas sped between lanes of cars lined like ants, old ladies held up vehicles as they hobbled across the street and pedestrians seemed impervious to the swerving drivers.

The cab pulled in front of a tall, nondescript apartment building o
n a corner. My knuckles relaxed their grip on my seatbelt. The building was a peninsula into the street, traffic lanes built around the protrusion. I noticed a Farmacia, which I guessed meant Pharmacy, to one side and a shop full of clutter on the other. There was a dog doing his business in the miniscule patch of grass, the only greenery in sight.

I
told my legs to move and slid out of the car.
Which window led to my new home?
I hoped it was the one with the potted plants. It was the cheeriest looking deck, much better than its neighbor covered in old dishtowels. I noted that most of them had a soccer – sorry,
futbol
flags draped from their windows. One side of the building was bathed in blue while the other sported red banners. One for each of the Milan teams, I recalled, having read about the rivalry on the plane. The cabbie cleared his throat.

I struggled to unload my things while the cab driver watched. I tentatively accepted the change and
ran through my mental notes, trying to recall whether I needed to tip him. The dog finished his business and moved on, neither the cabbie nor I breaking eye contact.

I w
on the stare down, apparently because he got in the car and he drove off into the mess of vehicles. I stared down at the Euros in my hand wondering if they were fake.

What sort of awesome curren
cy has shiny embellishments on top of pink and blue paper?
I felt rich just holding the colorful bills, fascinated by the silver strip glittering across the top. I’d
save 
money while I was here, just because I didn’t want to spend it! I wanted to hold onto these bills and watch the designs twinkle.

I pocketed the precious
paper money and hauled my bags inside. I noticed a problem before the door swung closed. First, there were stairs 
leading
 to the elevator. Excuse me, but I thought the purpose of elevators was to avoid stairs. I’m not the laziest person in the world, but let’s be realistic. I had luggage.

Five minutes later, I reached the elevator
after crossing an expanse of floor more intimidating than the Sahara Desert. I waited, and waited, and waited. Approximately seven minutes later, the elevator dinged open. Problem number two: my suitcases would
not
all fit. I gestured to the grey-haired lady at the front desk that I’d be back for my oversize bag. She ignored me. I wasn’t surprised, as she’d watched me heave suitcases up the stairs with a smile on her face. Italy obviously had a different style of ‘doorman’ etiquette.

I arrived on the seventh flo
or and rang the bell, sweating from exertion. A mother with a baby clinging to her apron opened the door. I could see a family, and I mean grandma, grandpa, uncle, aunts, fifteen cousins, all staring at me in quiet confusion. I had interrupted their dinner prayers. I looked at my sheet, noticed the footnote that floors are labeled differently in Italy; floor seven is actually eight, due to the fact Italians count ground floor as zero. Basements are negative one. I apologized waited an awkward seven minutes for the elevator to rescue me.

I was
certain I had the correct door when I saw the sign for Study Abroad. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by a thin, flimsy haired woman. She was tiny, but at least a few years older than me.

“Ciao, I am
Laura,” she murmured. “Welcome to Italy.”

Laura
gave me a brief tour of the apartment showing me the balcony overlooking Milan.

“Holy shit! You c
an see all the way to the mountains!”

Laura
looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Si, gli Alpi.”

I nodded, not understanding
, still in awe over the amazing view. Next stop was the kitchen. She walked into the room, and I started to follow. She held up her hand for me to stop.

“This is the kitchen.” She opened her arms to display the small room and stepped out, allowing me to enter. I understood now why she
showed the space in such a fashion; two people in the space would have been a tight squeeze. There were three chairs squeezed under a scratched table, and it was debatable whether they functioned for actual sitting purposes. There was definitely not enough space if you included an expansion buffer for few plates of pasta and maybe a cookie or four. I hear the biscotti are smaller than American chocolate chip cookies.

Despite its small size, the flat was warm and comfortable. The plants
were thriving, the dinner table well-used and the fireplace inviting. The yellow walls gave off the feeling of sunshine and brightness, and I appreciated the openness of the living room after the claustrophobia of the kitchen, sunlight streaming through full-length balcony doors. I could imagine it would be cozy and intimate by night. Though there was a chill in the air outside, I felt safe and secure inside the apartment. I had fallen in love.

“Are you ready to meet your roommates?”
Laura asked. She led me to the other end of the apartment and showed me a room imperceptibly larger than the kitchen. Two beds took up most of the space, arranged in the shape of an ‘L.’ I was relieved to see we had decent closet space. I plopped my bag, the size of a small car on the floor and slid the mirrored closet door open. Both closets were being utilized.

“Sorry, I just had so much stuff- I can move a few things, I guess,” a clump of brown hair seemed to mumble out of a pile of clothes.
I hadn’t noticed her feet sticking out the open door. I could only see the back of her head, a petite figure shuffling poufy jackets.

“I just figured, I got here first, and
-” she turned around and stopped talking.

“You’re the
one that kicked me on the plane.” It wasn’t a question. I recognized her, as well.

“Sorry, “I mumbled, “I’m Dana. Hope first impressions aren’t everything.”

“Emilia,” she said, and stuck out her hand for me to shake. I got the feeling we were performing a business deal instead of making friends.

“I’ll just set my stuff on the bed for now
, I guess,” I said, hoping she’d move her stuff out of my closet.

“That’d be wonderful. We can always move things around
later. You should get ready for the welcome dinner, though. We can go together.” She said the last part as if doing me a favor by making an appearance together.

“Ready when you a
re,” I replied. Emilia stared.

After an awkward pause, she blurted, “Wouldn’t you like to change?”

I rolled my eyes and made a big deal of spreading my clothes across the room, draping them on every available surface to make up for my lack of hanger space. I changed clothes and peered in the mirror tacked to the side of my occupied closet. I turned to Emilia, ready to go. She gave me a once over and refrained from commenting. It seemed like a physically painful experience for her to keep her mouth shut, but she managed to head for the door.

“Don’t worry about your keys, I’ll bring mine
.” She pulled a key ring out of a different Louis Vuitton bag. I clutched my faded brown purse, picking at the remnants of a stray name tag stuck to the fake leather.

“No kidding, doe
s this actually work?” I asked when I saw the bronze coloring. I grabbed the keys from her hands and singled out the largest metal pole, long as my finger. It looked like it belonged in a castle sometime in the fifteenth century, or maybe at Hogwarts. It was tarnished, complete with two prongs protruding from one end.

“This is sweet!” I exclaimed in disbelief. Emilia seemed unsure how to take my commentary.
After twisting her face around a bit, she decided on a smile.

“I take it you’ve never been to Italy before?” She held the door open and demonstrated how to turn the key four times and lift upward before it locked.

“No,” I said, eyes wide, watching her demonstration. “I’ve never been out of the country. Well, until now.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, I’ve been on one vacation in my life with my family, and it was some small town in the middle of Illinois where my parents secured a free time share. I think we watched Dumb and Dumber fifty times on repeat because there was nothing to do, and it was the only movie my sisters thought to pack.”

“Huh,” Emilia said.
Laura appeared behind us, and we headed to the welcome dinner together. The event was held at a spa and paid for by the school –
score!
Laura led us down the raggedy elevator, past the bored doorman, a few blocks to the nearest metro stop. On the way to the train, we passed a shop with live fish in the windows; I stopped, my eyes following the colorful fins.

“
I didn’t know they had Asian restaurants here,” I said.

My
observation was acknowledged with blank stares.
Excuse me
, I didn’t realize they served anything but pasta here. I’d been looking forward to thoroughly cooked lasagna.

The metro stairs were near the restaurant, and
Laura showed us how to purchase a ticket and swipe it through the reader. For seventeen Euros a month, you could travel anywhere desired by bus, metro or trolley. Not a bad deal.

The gap between the platform and the metro car stretched like a terrible impasse. When I was five, I’d
gotten my shoelaces stuck in a moving escalator at the mall. The onslaught of shoppers had shouted for me to move on, but I’d been stuck, frozen in fear. My heartbeat had stopped, and I’d stood paralyzed for a full minute before my mom realized I wasn’t following her.

Staring at the hole, the irrational fear washed over me once again.
What if I missed? Would the train leave without me, leaving my foot stuck?

Unlike
the instance on the escalator, I was now twenty one and my hesitation was much more embarrassing; the space was four inches across. My stomach growled; there was no way I was missing a free dinner. I leapt across the metro feeling like an antelope. I landed on board and clutched the pole in the center. As the train started to move, I glanced at the other riders. The Italians were all staring. At first, I thought I was being paranoid.

Laura
leaned over and whispered in my ear, “They always stare, don’t be upset. The old ladies stare out of jealousy, the men stare out of appreciation and everyone stares to see your clothes. You are not dressed like us, so they stare more.”

May
be I should have listened to Emilia; she wasn’t the recipient of half as many off-kilter looks, outfitted in designer clothes, her porcelain doll lips painted to perfection.

Live and learn.

There was an array of students mingling around the facility upon our arrival, and my clothes fit right in with the jeans and sweatshirt clad co-eds. I looked quite dressed up, actually, in my ruffled black dress. I’d nicknamed her my
first date dress
. I always wore the same one – primarily because she was my only option. Being unlucky in love, most men didn’t last longer than one or two dates. This black beauty got a lot of action.

We gathered together and sat down to eat, listening to welcome speeches
presented in broken English. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. As the speeches concluded, champagne bottles popped and the semester was under way in true Italian style. After too much to eat, too much to drink and plenty of lively chatter, dinner wrapped up. The fifty-six in the program were ushered down the hall into the spa area. I was a little wobbly on my feet.
Champagne really crept up on ya’.

I
entered the spa, sobered by the sight. A marbled hallway stretched like an ethereal pathway. At the end of the hallway, framed in a soft light, were candlelit tables adorned with rich tablecloths and laden with food.
More food?
I couldn’t think about eating.