Marco Takes Rue de Ravioli

August 2, 2013

Marco listened for the sound of those cheesy chirping birds. He had made his way to Paris, city of lovers, to a town which looked more Italian than French. Having just recently discovered rue de Ravioli he was delighted to find, with a hungry belly, the town to in fact be completely made of raviolis. And so, it was with a light heart and an old cheese grater, he set out to do what the locals had called blasphemy for as far back as the 17th century. “To think I am half-dead with starvation and this street is salvation!” But Marco was fully-alive and had just eaten a hearty breakfast of ham and toast earlier that day. Still, he thought, my stomach is grumbling.

Hopping a small bubblegum-colored fence with a white sign reading Keep Out in gold loopy letters, Marco landed on a dirt path almost killing a green frog on the way (and Marco thought he must be made of spinach). “This is where I will build my cabin” he stated to the air and perhaps to the bugs, but the bugs were not listening. When no response came he sighed and continued, “I shall build my cabin here and I shall never go hungry. Ragged children will crawl to my doorstep and I will feed them tomato-sauced bluebirds as gifts and then I will toss them back to the street, for they might eat all of my insects, and then what would I eat?” His thoughts had gotten the better of him and he found himself absent-mindedly sitting atop an ant hill, which more closely resembled a miniature volcano erupting with hot orange lava cheese. “Hello ants, can you hear me?” Marco felt a sudden chill of loneliness and wished the crawling pastas would speak.

“Do you really want your food to talk back to you?” A cat, a talking grey alley cat with black lips and two different colored eyes spoke to the hungry man. Marco thought it might have been of the Chesire breed but it was neither floating nor purple and he had not jumped down a rabbit hole after all. This cat was oozing with white parmesan cheese. “You’re right, but then why do you speak?” “I am not your food” the angry-looking feline spat back. “And now, I am not your friend.” The Chesire-like cat walked slowly into the distance as if waiting for Marco to beckon it back. “Boy, cats sure are sensitive. Even on rue de Ravioli.”

As the day went on Marco searched the forest for the perfect land on which to build his one-man cabin. The woods spanned at least a dozen acres and brimmed with 60-feet high pink ravioli trees. Every day, when the sun was just about to set, light would shine a certain way so that the raviolis sparkled with gold tints and softened fillings. This was the best time to taste the trees.

Mr. Cat (as Marco later found to be the name of that Chesire feline) walked past him a few more times as if begging for attention, but Marco had had enough of cats, and so he found himself talking to the moon instead, and the stars, and the bugs that crawled up his arms and into his mouth. “The big ones are the tastiest” he said to the sun one afternoon, after having finally assembled his cabin on a small patch of grass under a particularly tall 100-foot pink ravioli tree. It would provide him with shade at least for now, and every week it would rain ravioli so as to make room for the new. Marco had found paradise on a small street in Paris.


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