Angel in a Wooden Bra / Page 7 of 20


	the train to Florence skin so delicate it could have been molded from olive oil and marzapan, the Italian woman in the opposite seat on the morning train from Milano is more Californian than me, who was born there. she had at least an hour invested in her hair. her lips curled. jaw clinched at the outrage -- the only ticket available to her was in a smoking car and the 3 of us are the only passengers not lighting a fresh cigarette from the last one's butt end. she was on her way to Roma for a weekend rally and march for animal rights. she's vegan and made a loud show of refusing to eat the cookies from the stewardess because they were made with milk and eggs. (free the cows, Dean whispers in my ear.) she wants to give us advice for finding vegetarian restaurants and swap recipes for couscous and ecologically-sound bran muffins. (there's a woman with constipation, I murmur back.) she got up and moved when we stopped at Bologna, looking for a car where no one smoked. this being Italy, I expect she's still working her way backwards through the train, one car to the next, until she reaches Berkeley.

the train to Florence