The facial recognition technologythey’re using to board the planeis, of course, strictly optional.The young familyin whose apartmentI’m staying on my employer’s dimehas moved here from Rome. The woman shows mehow to make stovetop espressoand serves me,that first morning, two slicesof a chocolate ring-cake, so dryit turns to powder in my mouth. There will be cakeevery morning of my stay here —the same cake getting drier by the day —served on a folded paper napkin on a plate.The second morning, she suggeststhat I may take it to my room, so I take the napkinand, every day, wrap the cake to smuggle outand deposit itin a public trashcan. Every day, as I walk,I end up eating most of it.Your name, it sounds so German, the ticket woman says.German Jewish, yes, I say.Huh. I’ve never heard it, shakes her head.Outside a shop, one man holds a window squeegee, double-sidedwith the squeegee and the scrubber. He’s washing the windowwhile another man looks on, either learning how to do itor making sure the first one does it right.The goal is to not see the glass. I think he’s doing great.I look throughto the phones for sale, tethered to the tables.I’m waiting to text Chris.It could be that they’re taking turns,keeping each other company.A bus pulls up and carriesmy reflection away.The streets are empty, and I’m not surewhen it happened, when it came to seemactively dangerous to be apart. Alone, I feelalone, but violently. Like half.The streets are empty, so I wait with pleasurein the safety of a line outside a restaurant —Vietnamese street food, which suggestswholly different streets.Once inside, I’m seatedat a table for fourand, after I order, am joined by a manwho, when he orders,is British. We don’t speak. He presumably remainsunaware that we could.Over the Atlantic, in the row ahead,a woman attempts to return her breakfast muffin,unopened in its plastic,to the flight attendant.No, it can’t be saved.Everything will be incinerated.