La Vita e Bella
By Cara D'Amico

Well.

There must be something I'm missing.

The cafe is, of course, called "La Vita e Bella", or in my ancestors' native tongue, "Life is Beautiful". The edges of the walls are gilded and carved with tiny, exquisite angels. The windows are large and open, allowing for the perfect spring air to seep in. And the cafe table? Echelons above its tiny, uncomfortable peers at the neighboring restaurants, it is instead a satin-edged antiqued pine with a matching chair covered in satin and stuffed with something cozy. When I let myself fall into the chair, I wasn't sure if I even had the energy to lift the menu; this little corner was my kind of Heaven. The menu only proved more enticingÑ oven-baked bruschetta, fluffy gnocchi with fresh pesto sauce, and a picturesque tiramisu for dessert. The restaurant, the day, the feeling could been paradise. Should have been paradise.

And yet I came here to die.

Die or escape, I'm not sure which yet.

I just walked out on my life. Ten minutes ago, I was sitting in my office cubicle, my brain on the verge of explosion, when a co-worker approached me with a huge stack of papers and announced that they needed shredding. I should have said, "how nice for you", or something along those lines. Of course I did not; nice girls don't argue. So I bit my tongueÑliterallyÑand took the stack of unwanted papers, one for every dollar I still owe to my expensive private university.

The stack of papers was black and white, the content analytical and boring. I found myself studying the edges of the battered stack and wondering how long they'd been shoved behind someone's desk, waiting for a college graduate to shred them whilst banging her head against the wall out of pure ennui.

My hands seemed to form a life of their own then as they lifted the stack and charged, legs just barely keeping up, to the four-stalled ladies' room. I recalled endless childhood games of 52-pickup as the papers exited my hands with force, smashing themselves against the mirrored walls. I stoodÑgiddy, childlikeÑwith no impulse to do anything, and certainly no impulse to clean up the mess. No voices in my head warn me "These papers are confidential! You'll lose your job!"

Because none of that mattered, of course. All that I knew for sure was that I had to get out. Now.

My boss is, naturally, the next one to enter the bathroom, with a very loud, "What theÉ?!"

My tongue is being held hostage by my flatlined brain, so I merely shake my head at her as I take in the jumbled papers: all mixed up, no way to fix.

The next thing I know I am at this cafe, wondering who or what took hold of my mind. Come back! I want to shout. But it does not. The sole thought twisting around in my mind is "Get out."

I don't know what it means.

Leave the world as a whole, or just leave this world, this metropolitan haze of traffic and bomb threats, elevators and subways?

My gnocchi is escorted to the table by the bored waiter, and when it is positioned in front of me it takes me a moment to place it. Food. Yes, food. Nourishing, unlike life lately. Eat, be nourished, I tell myself.

And with one bite I am transported. I float deep into my younger mind to a day on the Via Giulia in Rome. We are cooling off in a tiny, quaint cafe not so unlike the one in which I am seated right now. I order gnocchi with pesto sauce and am surprised by the taste of the fresh herbs on the hot Italian day. Fresh food feels like sunshine.

In Europe, I had no cell phone. In Europe, I did not have access to email. There were not endless coffee dates to organize with distant friends from college or the gym or colleagues from one of my other lives. In the morning, breakfast was a three-course meal, enjoyed in the peace of the lifestyle, so unfamiliar. There were no bowls of cereal eaten from a coffee mug while on the phone at work, no lunches of sandwiches while walking down the street on my cell phone, and I didn't have a gym. I just walked for miles and miles, and took the time to really look. At what some being or force I do not understand created - flowers, trees, architecture, sunlight, people.

The last piece of gnocchi is still melting in my mouth when it comes to me: the answer. The answer to this overwhelming, over-stimulating life of everything and yet nothing.

I dig up the dreaded cell phone from piles of receipts and paraphernalia in my purse and dial. As the phone is ringing, I am carefully planning my escapeÑwhat I will take, what I will leave. The only missing piece is what to tell people.

"I've lost my mind," I could say. "I'm going back to Italy."

But the statement would be incorrect, I believe.

"Alitalia," the saleswoman answers in an Italian accent. My shoulders immediately relax. I stare at the details of this perfect little cafe as I explain what kind of ticket I need. Right now, right away, I want to say. Just give me a few moments to pack my suitcase and I will be gone. I want my life to be a perfect little cafe, do you understand, my anonymous saleswoman?

When we have struck a deal, I dial another number and hold the warm phone against my ear. He answers and I let out the breath I have been keeping captive inside my lungs.

"Dad," I say. "I've found my mind."