To be a Greek in Rome is delicious. Having left home with curiosity, not hate, Greek has found things, mutatis mutandis, the same. Hints of Greek’s own history, like garnishes of spice, keep the foreign dish in familiarly delectable territory. Instead of discomfort, something new brings tasteful discovery, acceptable modifications of truth; Eleutheria may be Libertas here, but the concepts are close enough for Greek to nod off what the Roman is saying as true. Plus, every time the host stops talking servants bring out more food.
“It’s been nice,” Greek says in-between bites, “Getting to know you. The more time I spend in Rome the better it gets.”
“Our sea brings excellency.” Looking off the balcony into clashing shades of endless blue, Roman’s words come across with the melancholic nature of the hues.
“I just came from there. You ask me, Greece doesn’t have much excellency to share.”
Roman flicks wrist; silence, silver goblets refilled. “Without the Grecian influence Rome would be a shade of what it is today.”
Not wanting to smack the hand that feeds, Greek cedes the point. “Yeah, okay. Is there any more of those eggs?”
“Perhaps inside with the rest of the guests. But the first course is over soon.” Roman, standing, slyly looks down. “Be sure to finish your wine.”
Greek, following, has no problem with that. Slightly sour going down leaves a rich aftertaste, suited to current company. The host and others are judgy, deep-pocketed types; the only thing that’s surprised Greek more than receiving an invite is their tolerance of ignorance. Greek hasn’t come educated by the line of philosophers they idolize, nor could Greek hold a conversation about the architectural styles the Romans care so much to emulate.
Greek is, however, familiar with the custom of 3 meals a day. The Romans combine those meals into a single, day-long event they call Cena. Truly, only the wine is new, stronger than anything Greek has had before – anywhere it hits, mouth, throat, stomach, stays warm. “I need something to eat.” Greek says, stumbling over words, toward a table covered in fish and fruit.
A gasp from a nearby lounger; the woman, in yellow dress on top of a cushion of green, addresses Roman pleadingly, “You wouldn’t have the Greek start dessert – not early.”
“No.” Roman confirms and guides Greek, who is somewhat unwilling, away.
“Why,” Greek has to pause, recollect words, “You told – I haven’t – If I don’t eat -“
“You look sick.” Roman says, “But the second course is set to begin. You should relax.”
Greek nods. “When I felt like this at home I’d just sit on the floor.” The words end on a slant, Greek’s crouch, slouch to shaded stone.
“But you’re in Rome.” Strongly said, and strong hands on Greek’s shoulders stop the drop. At the touch Greek realizes lack of control over body; is helpless, can do nothing but watch the world go by as Romans pick up, carry dead weight to the middle of the room where boiling cauldron sits, waiting for its meat: the Greek.
Vincent Santino Smarra 
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