When you’re backpacking through Europe it only makes sense that PB&J becomes at least one meal each day. This cuts down on the expensive of eating out–which is handy when breakfast is provided by the hostel. In turn, one is only obligated to spend money on one meal.
It was late Saturday night when Karen and I realized that we’d eaten the last of the stale bread for lunch that day. We had grand plans of leaving our hostel early the next morning and hopping a train from Rome to Assisi for a day-trip. Being that it was late and the next day was Sunday and NOTHING is open when it is late and/or Sunday, we became acutely aware that eating PB&J might not be a possibility without bread. At the last minute we spotted a bakery with it’s lights glowing like a beacon guiding us home.
Bread. We needed bread.
Nothing looked like it would make a good sandwich. To fancy! At the last minute I pointed to a round loaf (do you call it a loaf when it is round?). The girl behind the counter began putting it in a bag when I asked if she could slice it (all we had back at the hostel were plastic knives). I think I was asking too much, or having far to much faith in the Italian culture in my hope that she would just put it through a bread slicer, giving us thin, manageable bread. Instead she cut it in quarters, which were still about the size of my entire hand…and I distinctly remember paying far more than I had anticipated.
But we made sandwiches anyway. And ate them overlooking Assisi. Afterwards our jaws hurt from the chewing.