Fighting the tide, and spider feet.

Tired of it.

Tired of the instability, riding out the mood swings.  

I'm tired of chasing off the demons.  I run, swinging wildly at some hell-bats winging at me in the night, swinging, swung from a broomstick.  Gotta turn the tide somehow.  Got caught in that riptide and now I'm swimming toward the shore with all my might.  I want the tide to come back in.  It sucked me so far out this time I can't see the shore and the waves just keep washing over and over and over and over.

I'm over it. 

The version of me that is happy, happy-go-lucky.  The version of me that I remember is wasting away on the shoreline like sand through my hourglass shape.  

I feel like I'm losing my grip.  Like I'm going to get lost in the ugly confusion of my visions and that's all I'll be.  It's harder and harder to follow the story.  I lose track of it.  

I remember going round and round in the circle of my own consciousness.  I remember the cycle of becoming and realizing and knowing in that instant I was dying, and sometimes I feel like I am still there, laying on my bed dying and this is the last of my consciousness living a life in my mind as the real me is breathing my last breath.  

It makes me choke, to think about it.

Then I remember that I'm thinking too much and not to do that anymore.  Have to be grounded, keep it together.  Follow the story.

Its this depressive rumination that will get me down - thinking about thinking.  I can think all I want, but it won't explain my being.  This solipsistic navel-gazing doesn't make me any more or less loved.

I remember knowing  -knowing- that the thing that would save me is how much I am loved.  That I would save others because of how much I am loved.  Strip me down to my core belief and that's what I get. 

Don't fight it - let the ocean carry you.  Swim parallel to the shore you know, keep going in the same direction and sometime soon you'll realize the water wasn't all that deep anyway.

You'll put your little feet down and find them in the soft sand.  The waves won't tumble you anymore, the visions won't be full of spiders, they'll be full of flower petals.  

Spider feet are tapping, soft and gentle.  I let them crawl right in my mouth and fall asleep.  I breathe in a whole lungful of water and breathe it back out.  Maybe I'll find I can even sing, underwater.  

I welcome the dark.  I am curious, and gentle with myself.  I will not fight the tide, today.  

Dear, I love you. Or: Anthology. The Bad Assignment, and other tales from the bedside

The Mean One was on a rampage tonight. I spent a good 15 minutes with 2 CNAs trying to herd him into the bathroom so we could clean the poop off his balls.

He knew he needed the bathroom, but didn’t really know what to do once he got there. The bewildered look of a dog that’s finally caught the car bumper comes to mind.

Earlier, he stiffly set his cup of cocoa down to turn to me and say (more clearly than anything else he had said) “I have to shit.” But then once he got in the bathroom, he would not sit on the toilet when I pointed it out. It didn’t really matter, because he had already clearly filled his brief, so I asked him to sit so I could help him get cleaned up. Instead, he insisted on taking his gown off, and became very angry when he couldn’t figure out how to open it from the front. I lifted the front of it off and he threw it angrily on the floor.

He would not sit on the toilet but he did manage to get his stool-filled brief off. He continued to escalate, as I tried to clean him up, so eventually I gave up and backed off. He stood stooped there in the bathroom like a defiant 5-year-old who had just won the tantrum, wearing only yellow traction socks and a lot of poop.

So I called for help. One lovely CNA came to my rescue and I didn’t even say anything when she opened the door.  She slowly swept her gaze across the scene and, registering the loose poop dripping from his ballsack - she instantly joined me in battle.  

We cajoled him to let us clean him up, but he wasn’t having it. He was swiping at us here and there, so: like matadors we danced around him waving bath wipes trying to run one between his legs before he swung an arm. I dodged an ill-aimed fist to swipe a wipe, pivoted on one foot and landed my three-pointer in the trashcan. Nothin’ but net. The crowd in my head went wild.

They’ve simmered down a little, the Mean One in Bed B and his roommate in Bed A. Now they are doing the chatter thing that little boys do- talking about everything and nothing, and occasionally responding to eachother. But- it’s not cute toddler confabulation, it’s word salad.

May I regale you with the last 10 minutes worth of the verbal reparteé?

A: “Excuse me! Where did that jeffecoffits came along? What else are you getting to?”

B: “Mary Mary Mary Mary whew!”

A: “Dear, I love you!”

A: “Yes but this there befriender the apron!”

B: “Mother. Mother. (Helicopter sound effects)”

A: “WHY BELL WHY BELL WHY BELL WHY! Hey Jack, where you got your dick from?”

B: “Have to sharp my own knife. The other other other other ones.”

A: “There are many jewelry! You had to big explode the exploder!”

B: “28, 21, 56, 28, 71, 71, 56…”

A: “So whattaya gotta be? Someda hava ranger?”

B: “78 71 76”

A: “I like you!”

B: “Shut up.”

A: I like you my dog.”

B: “Shut up I said.”

A: “Oh man did I got a bad death tonight.”

B: “73 86 78 71 76”

B: “Double giant tire. Tum thumb thumb thumbthumbthumb”

A: loud fart

B: “Shut up.”

A: “Wait’ll he smell his bandry!”

Oh man did I get a bad assignment tonight.

All fall down.

I walked the whole labyrinth, 

Laid my skin and soul bare and left it drying 

Met a Minotaur of my own making.  

I fought him with fists and furious excuses.  

We ended up making friends and playing a furious game of 

chess by the sea.  

My monster, and me.  

He schooled me with a sneaky rook or two, but I hooked him in the end.  

I heard from the son of a shopkeeper 

That the son of the sun was horsing around- 

Drove his carriage right into the ground

Left his sister crying

Her tears turning to sweet amber

We all fall down, you see.

The sun and the moon and me,

We all fall down.

If nothing else, this place will cure me of my slovenly ways.

I'm learning to live with the vagaries of tropical life.
Hawaii is full of magic, from the glorious sunsets, to wildlife and flowers, it's a vivid life.
The land is alive, the trees are vibrant, everything seems to exist in the brightest shade of a color that it could possibly be.  
It's all of the edges of the color wheel.
The ocean, the birds, the smells, the very air is screamingly vivid.
As Tom Robbins once described South America:  "It's vivid.  Too goddamn vivid."

Learning to live in a colorful place isn't all rainbows and birdsong, though.  There are a thousand tiny frustrations that weave their way into life.  

The traffic is ever-present, and worsening.  

There's no trash service.  

Service is glacial.  

Any service.  From car service, to any government organization, to restaurant service...  It's all on island time, and that takes some getting used to.   

There are bugs.

Lots. Of. Fucking. Bugs.

Here's where the Roach Rodeo begins:

Let's first begin with some cockroach facts.  They are pests, but they are highly tenacious and successful pests and so they may worthy of some respect.  I'm hoping that learning a little more about the little bastards might help improve my squealing housewife "GET IT!" reaction to them making themselves at home in my home.

Cockroaches are insects, meaning they have 6 legs, and their skeleton is the outer part of their body.  They are members of the order Blattodea, to which termites also belong.  They are generalists - "among the most primitive of insects" (even the Wikipedia article drips with scorn for the things) meaning that they have no specialized sucking mouthparts like aphids, or other true bugs.

The Wikipedia article even discusses prehistoric roaches, calling them "Roachoids".  

This is my new favorite thing to call other idiot drivers.  My mom likes to make up epithets, shouting "Fuckwad!" or "Dickweed!" at people committing traffic faux pas.  The next guy to pull out in front of me is getting a hearty "Roachoid!" 

I digress.

Let it be known that cockroaches are not even considered "true bugs".  They are imposter bugs, poseur bugs.  They are the half-wit cousins; the redheaded stepchildren; and they cannot sit at the lunch table (pun very intended) with the cool kids.  Thus judged, we shall see how fairly:

While these cretins are describes as "primitive", there are some redeeming characters among them.  

German cockroaches live in an "an elaborate social structure involving common shelter, social dependence, information transfer and kin recognition." (Wikipedia)

Half-wit cousins who recognize their redheaded stepchildren, then.

Also, Domino cockroaches are kind of cute.  They look like a flat, black and white ladybug.   Like if Andy Warhol did ladybugs in black and white, that's what the Indian variety of cockroach looks like.  

We've all heard the "factoid" about how roaches could survive a nuclear holocaust.  Some can survive, apparently, temperatures to -188F.  This is not a comforting fact.  If they can survive temperatures that low, they may be able to survive high temperatures as well.  My primary battle strategy was to set them all on fire with a blowtorch.  

Cockroaches exhibit collective decision-making.  Like a quorum about food or shelter.  

Get this: American roaches raised in isolation get depressed.   They are behaviorally different than roaches raised in a group.  

Everything I'm reading about cockroaches says that they're kinda like cows: they help eachother out, they're curious, they do stuff in herds.  They communicate to eachother with various kinds of hisses (ew).  

Well, shit.

Now I feel like I need to approach them like cows.  They're just looking for a place to eat some grub, and get busy making some more little cockroach babies.  Some of them even parent their little roachlings.  

If you're wondering how we got on this subject (I sure as fuck am): well, wonder no more as I am about to get to the damn point of this rambling story.  I applaud you, dear friend, for sticking with me this far.  

I have dubbed my adventures in making friends with the cockroaches the "Roach Rodeo"

I'm sure with my squealing and squawking, chasing them with a slipper or a rolled-up towel... occasionally throwing books across the room... I resemble a damn rodeo clown: alternately running toward - and away from - a mad bull.  

My dear friend K says: "Can confirm, you do look like a rodeo clown."

Well, I'll be the Queen of the clowns at the Roach Rodeo, then!

Athens.

I decided I didn’t want to go to the Acropolis.  
I know that it and the Parthenon are important things in human history, but - 
I've found that I just don't enjoy looking at Old Stuff that much.
I could take a picture of some thousand year old columns, that 
Look like every postcard sold in the tourist trap shops nearby...
Or I could wander.
I don't mean to downplay the impact of getting close to something ancient and beautiful, my friends raved about hiking up to the top of the hill and experiencing some epic history.
I just wanted something else.

I turned down a cobbled street and met Yannos, a Greek hipster who runs a little shop with indie art and loves Kurt Cobain.  He was thrilled to hear I’m from near Seattle and that I had been to Aberdeen once-  and lit up, telling me about seeing Foo Fighters at the Odeon last year.  The place was built in 51 AD, and renovated in 1950, so Dave Grohl and friends had to get a special permit from the Central Archaeological Council of the Greek Government to be the first band to rock it.  He said he closed his shop for the first time ever for that concert.
The shop is called "Flaneur".  

I sat on a rooftop bar, listening to a small band of Greek musicians play the exact song you knew would be playing at a rooftop bar in Athens.  There’s an oboe and a tambourine and a beautiful brown woman in a flowing and slightly tattered skirt dancing with them, passing the hat.  The others are wearing jeans and t-shirts and everyone is having fun.  Some old pillared ruin crumbles on the hill above me.  The white city on the other side of me glitters, and I find it strange to think that way over there, reflecting the sun's intensity at me, that’s just someone’s house.  

Yannos suggested that I check out a free concert that night, and I'm so glad I did.
Some Greek millionaire decided Athens didn't have enough parks, so he built one.  
Opera house, library, pond replete with free sailboats you can sail on it...
And amphitheatre with a 360-degree view of all of Athens.
I wandered in to find a lovely woman singing with her guitar, accompanied only by a cello.  
I enjoyed the lovely view of the city and stars, and was struck
When she covered Leonard Cohen's "Bird on a Wire", which he wrote while living on the Greek island Hydra.
I knew it from my Dad singing it to me as a kid.
It was such a perfect moment: the view of an ancient city and the song from my childhood.
I loved every minute.

Made my way home that night, singing Bird on a Wire all the way, 
"I have tried/ in my way/ to be free."

Relax.

I remember this feeling.  
The last time I felt this was sitting on the bow of a boat, riding along the black and red slashes of mountains that rise out of the Red Sea in Egypt.  
I was talking to a kind Egyptian hippie about a profound and abiding oneness, eternal connection, and about the stars.   
I felt a deep an abiding home in myself- stripped of my usual worries and trappings, I am perfect and whole as I am.   
I love this about going far away, to be reminded just how close home really is.
The first thing I notice is how long my neck feels.
I know that's a funny thing to notice, but stick with me for a moment:
My shoulders, having tightened for so long against my sea of troubles
Atlas and I, trying to hold back a tide of worry and expectation
Suddenly have the space to remember that 
What's the worst that can happen?
When you zoom out from your life a little:
What's the very worst that can happen?
And, there really isn't that much that I actually can't handle, and so:
I don't have to hold up the whole world.
I don't have to breathe every breath as if it was my last, either.
I can just listen to the sea and remember
We will all wash away.
We will all disappear
But for now,
I carry nothing.
And my shoulders are really far away from my ears.

Maui, Day 2

We wake too early.
I am almost universally unhappy to wake up.  I have learned to simply be pleasant until I feel pleasant, which happens almost universally after about a half hour and a cup of coffee.

The Adventure of The Day begins with sea turtles.

We have parked our car on the marina seawall and made our way to the 65' catamaran that will be ferrying us to some prime snorkeling spot this morning.  I am buzzing with excitement - sailing is one of my very favorite things.  We join a small group of people standing on the seawall across from our slip to watch a giant green sea turtle munching on algae there.  Two smaller turtles munch, too - each two feet across.  I don't know why I'm so surprised to see that they look just like paintings of sea turtles.  What a touristy thing to think.

We all file onto the boat, 22 people plus the crew and motor out from the marina.  The man at the helm is the quintessential salty sea-captain.  His leather skin and baggy clothes make him look just like a painting of a captain, too.  His two brown crewmembers do his bidding without question.  They clearly respect him, and so we do, too.

Not 15 minutes into our journey across the channel, someone shouts something and we all turn to see the splash of a humpback whale that has just breached high above the water.  Moments later, two whales erupt out of the water into the air and slam back on their great sides, about 200 yards from our boat.  We all scramble to take a few blurry pictures, awestruck by the sight of two 30-ton mammals playing "who can jump higher".  Even the captain slips his phone out of his pocket to record - it's such a rare sight to see two whales breaching.

The wind picks up, and so do the waves slapping the underside of the trampoline between the catamaran's hulls at the front of the boat.  Most of the passengers scurry toward the protected cabin, but not me.  I know that going in the cabin in such choppy water is a great way to get seasick.  That, and I am a gleeful 6-year-old again - belly-laughing at the ocean while lying on my belly on my dad's old wooden sailboat.  The roll and heave of the hull against a full sail, the salt spray on my nose, and the humming of the halyards in a stiff wind is pretty much paradise for me.  I wind my fingers in the trampoline's lacings and plant my chin on the aluminum brace of the catamaran and howl back at the restless sea.  My soul is restless, too.

The Quintessential Captain turns us away from our original destination, as the wind has made it too dangerous to make the crossing.  We head for what's described as a turtle-cleaning station.  All the local turtles come to this specific spot, and a crew of cleaner wrasse nibble bits of dead skin and parasites off the turtles' flippers.  Turtle Spa Day.  I was looking forward to snorkeling in the Molokini crater, but really any snorkeling will do for me.

We are not disappointed.  After the initial gasping shock of slightly chilly water, and a couple of choking false-starts with my mask, I forget my anxiety.  There are schools of striped convict tang, fat black triggerfish with their electric blue trim, clownish yellow tang, iridescent parrotfish and the tiny polka-dotted boxfish.  And turtles!!!  They really do glide into a single spot between two rocks and raise their fins to be cleaned.  As soon as one turtle departed, another would wander in.  I think we counted 7 big green turtles cruising around the area.  Great shoals of japanese tourists on pool noodles snapped photo after photo with their big clear waterproof cameras.  I wished I had a camera to take a turtle picture, but there are so many paintings and pictures of them anyway - mine wouldn't be any different.  So I swam on, unencumbered by trappings or equipment - trying to keep moving so I'd be warm enough to stay in the water.

I finally hoist myself up the catamaran's stairs when my toes go numb from the cold.  78-degree water is warm, but not warm enough for my 98-degree body to keep going for more than about an hour.  We lunch and catch one more dip in before sailing back into the marina.

We spend the afternoon shopping in Lahaina - all of the painted shells and brightly silkscreened t-shirts blaring "I WENT TO MAUI" hide a couple of small, worthwhile shops.  One held a print of an orchid that I loved, and another was littered with shark's teeth and antique compasses.  This tiny beach town reminds me of other tiny beach towns - a festive veneer covers a quietly desperate dependence on tourist money.  Most places selling souvenirs: "proof" you really were there, that it wasn't all just a dream of paradise.  I see so few people at the sales counters, and wonder who it is that really buys most of this crap.

Dinner of the most delicious scallops I have ever eaten is cut short by our evening entertainment plans.  We hurry out of the restaurant to catch an Uber to the next town, unaware of the situation that was about to unfold.  Dr. Pops sits in the front seat, and Ducky and Dear and I pile in the back.  We're a little tipsy and already giggling.  The tiny haole driver lady makes polite conversation while I try to hold back my laughter.  You see, Dr. Pops is not a fan of Christmas music.  True to his grouchy veneer, he detests Christmas Cheer in all of its forms.  We have happened to hop in the one Uber in town that is festooned with Christmas crap, and when he huffed quietly at the Rudolph on the dashboard, we found this hysterical.  I get stink-eye from the driver in the rear view as I try to hold in my snickering.  I don't mean to mock her decorations, but we have fallen deep into a giggle loop from which there was to be no salvation.  I hold my breath and try to play with my phone, only to be met with catty texts from my seatmates.  We all quietly shake, tears rolling down our faces.  Oblivious, Dr. Pops rolls his window down to take in the night air.  "My antler!" cries the driver, only she's from the east coast so it's "Moy antlah!" "You've lost moy antlah!"

I look over to her side of the car, where a plastic and faux-fur antler is closed tightly in the window.
In addition to a christmas banner, blinking Rudolph and tiny lighted christmas tree, the car had had antlers.  In rolling down his window, Dr. Pops had sent one antler bouncing down the Lahaina highway behind us.  "You know, Blitzen only had one antler," he rapidly quips, hoping to pacify her.  "We have to go back!" she shrieks, "they don't make them like that anymore!"

In the back seat, we're unable to control ourselves.  I ask, "do you decorate for every holiday?" And dissolve into hysterics as she swings a sharp left to go back and get the lost decoration.  I'm quite sure she is going to find her antler and dump us all out on the side of the road.

After finding her fuzzy car ornament lying between the lanes and bustling back into the car, she is relieved.  "There," she sighs, "all back to normal."  More catty texts in the back seat debate the definition of "normal" as she continues the ride without comment.  She deposits us unceremoniously at our destination where we cackle and snigger our way inside.

We take in an evening of music with some wonderful slack-key guitar and ukulele players.  Dr. Pops has been following these musicians for years, and has made a fan out of me for sure.  I loved the twangy sound of their 12-stringed guitars.  Two beautiful hula dancers brought tears to my eyes as they danced the stories of life on an upcountry farm, and of brilliant Hawaiian sunsets.  I felt a sharp pain of regret that I have not spent more time with my grandmother.  My sweet Gram taught hula in the 50's on O'ahu.  Now that she is near 90 and losing her memories and faculties - the hula dances she taught remain clear in her mind.  I will always cherish the time I have gotten to spend with her: hearing her stories of island life, and watching her lovely hula hands mimic the rain coming from the clouds or the ocean waves on the sand.  At the end of the night, when Slack Key greats George Kahumoku and Sonny Lim led three younger 'uke players in a jam session - we were all mesmerized.  Their harmonies and uniquely Hawaiian sound was wonderful.

Our heads nodding, we traipse back to the condo and collapse into bed.  I count off the things I've seen and done in two days in Hawaii: whales, sailing, snorkeling, live music, fresh seafood and a grand sunset.

This is a full life.

Maui, Day 1

I wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking.
Oil and eggs and toast and pork.
I feel instantly anxious - I have a thing about food, you see.  I hate to eat other people's food. 
I wander out to say my hellos and catch up with some people I haven't seen in a year.  It will take some time to soften the mild strangeness, but we have plenty of that.
Both time, and strangeness.

We set off on a walk down the beach path.  It's lovely, winding along with the ocean on one side, and luxury resort after grand beach house on the other.  We watch be-hatted women with their small wild children and bored husbands.  We snigger like a junior high clique at overstuffed beachgoers in questionable attire.  I walk arm-in arm with my good buddy we'll call Ducky.  She is a few years younger than me; smarter and funnier and possessed of a greater depth of character.  She is the source of a primal silliness in my life.  She pokes, prods, licks and otherwise explores strange objects, fruit and social customs that might otherwise go unnoticed.  Today, she wants to know what a palm nut tastes like.  For your information, you can probably let raw palm nuts go as per Ducky's opinion, they taste absolutely horrible.

We wander past elaborate swimming pools with sandy bottoms and deluxe beach bars.
A 10$ smoothie tastes the same as a 4$ smoothie, so you know.
Ducky and I gleefully play the giant "Connect Four" game at one stop.  She wins.  This is how is has always been with us: near-constant play.  We play at life.  Most of the time, we both win.
We turn around at the end when the beach path becomes sandy, and walk another hour back to our hotel. 

My other two friends are a man we'll call Dr. Pops and his stunning wife.  He calls her "Dear", somewhat sarcastically so I'll do the same here.
Dear is a witty woman.  Blonde and fit and relaxed, she enjoys traveling with her sarcastic and sometimes codgerly husband.  Dr. Pops tries to be grumpy, but is in reality deeply compassionate and sensitive.  He enjoys a comfortable retirement from a very stressful life cutting bones apart and knitting them back together in the operating room.  They are great fun and have been so gracious to invite Ducky and I to stay with them in a condo on the beach that I could never afford. 

We make a brief jaunt into town to rent snorkeling equipment.  I comment on the volleyball-sized avocado the man behind the counter is eating, and he hands me a slightly smaller one to take home.  The gift avocado proves an excellent sales tactic, as Ducky and I end up booking the next day's adventure and purchasing two dorky straw hats to keep the sun off our faces.  Rent-The-Things Man makes the usual jokes, flirts with us harmlessly, and assumes incorrectly that we are Dr. Pops' daughters.  Ducky teases him mercilessly while he grumbles all the way back to the condo.

At 5:15, we all hurry to pack everything up so that we are on time for the day's Board Meeting.  Dr. Pops calls the meeting to order, and we all toast the flamingo pink sunset from our beach chairs in front of the condo.  No-one has any new business for the agenda other than where we are eating dinner tomorrow.  We hastily adjourn the meeting so that we can continue to enjoy our double gin-and-tonics without the burden of decision-making.  Everyone giggles at the last rays of the day. 

Dinner at the MonkeyPod cafe down the street is delicious.  My fish tacos go down well with the lovely Chardonnay.  Dr. Pops regales us with a story about the time he scored some weed from one of the waiters there.  He passes me his little vape pen under the table and I take a puff.  I never figured him for the type, but I suppose everyone is these days. 

My last thought as I fall asleep is that I am so glad I am here.

Maui, Prologue.

I always have trouble leaving. 
I am so comfortable in my life now, that urgent wanderlust that used to drive me isn't there anymore. 
That's how I know, you know. 
How I know it's time to make some drastic change or pay better attention to my better judgement.
I'm a generally happy person.  I can make the best of anything, so sometimes I miss the finer points of glaring red flags in a relationship.  I make peace with, put up with, make excuses for in the name of compromise and because that's just the price of admission.
When the day comes that I can finally admit to myself that my burning desire to get in my car and drive anywhere but here isn't just a manic tic...  When I can look in the mirror and realize that my compulsion to shave my head is not, in fact, just frustration with today's tangled tresses... When I take stock of my life and find that I'm still alone in it - lonely for a partner who is meeting me halfway, rather than sucking half my life...
That's how I know it's time to move on.
I seized on the chance to join good, old friends on a tropical adventure right at my breaking point.  I had realized the real root of my lust for major change and just started to turn the corner toward something new and terrifying when I got a call:
"Hey, you wanna go to Maui?"
Balls yeah, I wanna go to Maui in December.

How romantic, for sure.  But come the day of, I had done no packing and no preparation.  I threw my clothes in hastily, and dallied til the last second with my sweet dogs. 
I have so much more that I'm leaving behind now.  I have such a rich and satisfying life - I know I'll have fun, but I don't need so badly to escape it anymore.  Usually, I have some raging and careless passion that I'm carrying with me when I travel.  I fling my worst self into strangeness and danger just to stretch my aching soul.  Caged in too long, Icarus and I like to see what we're made of.

I sleep on the plane.  Napping is my superpower - I can sleep anywhere, any time.  But airplane sleep is rarely good and I often dream fitfully.  I dreamed that I wanted to wake up, but couldn't.  I dream that I am too sleepy to do whatever needed to be done.  In my dreams, someone needs me but I can't ever move to help.  I'm always glad to wake up conveniently an hour before landing.

It's still a little strange to travel alone.  I am good at traveling, navigating airports and transportation when I have someone else that I am guiding.  Traveling alone makes decision-making difficult.  I have no-one to bounce things off of, so I must do what works best for me.
Ay, there's the rub.
I have no reflective character, no other half so I have to figure out what makes me happy and whole.
I've spent so much time making sure someone else is happy, I don't know how to do it for myself.

I find my way to the other side of the island, to my friends already asleep.  I'm happy to get some time to settle my travel nerves; read my book and simply listen to the ocean in the dark.  I hope my friends will be glad to have me here and that I will not be a nuisance.  I drink too much sometimes, and I don't want to annoy them so I must be careful.  I hope that I will be glad I left my dogs and my life and my family.
I hope I can be helpful.

Maybe now that I'm taking a trip for its own merit instead of escaping some narrow reality- it will be more peaceful.

The Disclaimer

The following is my journal from a trip to Mexico City in December 2011. It's mostly based in reality, but I may adjust the timeline or content here and there for entertainment and protection of the innocent. Y'all enjoyed the Italy stuff so much, and I loved having a day-by-day account so much that I figured I'd do it again. It's easy to write with such great material.

Mexico City - Day 1: Everything is everything

Got picked up in, yes, that pretty epic airport reunion. Back to Casa de Carlos squared in the "limo" driven by the driver who also lives at this hotel owned by his dad. Carlos senior is jolly, intelligent, and warm-hearted. I think he's more than a little bewildered by me, but treats me like family anyway. The hotel is more of a guest house, with only 8 or 10 rooms, typically only rented to airline staff. It's clean, very secure, and I get the idea that it's in a near constant state of construction. Carlos and I are a little nervous of each other at first, but we quickly fall back into old banter, and stay up late sharing stories and catching up on the last 6 months. It's wonderful to be with an old friend. I awake in the morning to 4 car alarms, honking, 2 dogs, and a woman yelling "Basuraaaaaaaa!". She gathers the trash, I'm told. There's also a man selling propane, announcing its availability with a hearty "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!" every few minutes. I can only smile, and delight in the little things that make international travel so rich and interesting. All tropical countries smell the same. Breakfast is of a cup full of fruit- papaya, guava, pineapple, banana, honey, and awesome from a small fruit stand where I'm introduced as the girlfriend. Girlfriend I am, then, for a week. It's the best way we can describe this - needing to distill some word out of our complex relationship so that others know how to relate to me... I suppose the reason that the usual labels don't work for me is that I don't follow the script. More than friends, more than just lovers, but not exclusive by any stretch- no commitment, no jealousy, no expectations, just loving as we will. This is perfect. We rode the wonderfully colorful Mexico City subway (the Metro) to the Zocalo. This is the huge square where Christmas happens in Mexico City. It's a caricature of winter, with people making snowmen from manufactured snow, soap-bubble flakes being blown into the air, ice-skating in a slushy rink, and paint-frosted roofs on carnival shacks hawking cup-o-soup, donuts, and questionably edible orange puff treats, all surrounding a huge AstroTurf Christmas tree. The buildings around the square are draped 8 stories tall with parade ornaments and lights. I hope we get to come back at night for the lights. It is a slightly muggy 75 degrees outside. I am wishing I had worn a skirt. We buy fries at the McDonalds to use the bathroom. I have a rule - I never eat at McDonalds in the US, but they have reliably clean bathrooms in other countries. I'll happily eat grease bomb fries for a toilet with a reliable supply of soap and paper. The cathedral across the street from the Zocalo is like many I've seen: made of marble, ornately carved and spectacularly decorated with statue after statue of saint-this and king-that. I remark that I wish I had been raised in the church sometimes, just so that I would have some of that knowledge. Carlos replies that he was, and he still doesn't. On the way out, I'm struck by the enthusiastic spikes on the fence surrounding the cathedral. I suppose it should have frightened me a little- such concern with security at a place of worship- but I was simply amused. Mexicans are a passionate people- living with gusto (literally?). Fences are not simply fences, they are FENCES! Carlos and I laugh about parties being PARTIES!, food is FOOD! and love is LOVE! in Mexico. "We don't do anything half-assed," he says. Me gusto. We meet up with Carlos' colorful friend Eric, who spent some time in prison, and is now teaching English and riding the thin line between macho Latin dude and funny people lover guy. They joke about everything, "use horchata in a sentence" making fun of their students, but they clearly love and devote a lot of time and energy to them. Here, as I'm writing, I hear the gas man shouting "Gaaaaaaaas!" We pick our way through the first few blocks of the market that's around the corner from the Zocalo. All the things are for sale here. The Christmas light store was my favorite. Bullhorns make salespeople more effective, in Mexico. Markets are MARKETS! Everything is designed to be packed up instantly for whenever the police decide they're tired of one or another little stall, or someone neglects to pay the required bribe. It's widely accepted that while the police enforce the laws, they are also highly corrupt and usually involved in breaking them. We eat street meat: fatty, greasy, spicy, amazing. We find a bar, and after one beer worth of ogling the hot blonde girl in tight pants, Eric introduces himself and it's all downhill from there. The thought occurs to me that it's 3pm on a wednesday. I haven't been in Mexico 24 hours, and I'm already drunk and chair-dancing with two pretty Mexican girls and their 4 gay friends. One of the girls takes more than a passing interest in me- she knows enough English to tell me I am "very beautiful" several times. I do my best to skirt the issue, and we eventually exit gracefully, but not without exchanging phone numbers and making friends with about 10 other people in the small bar. (yeah, yeah- run-on sentence and all that.... I write a lot of those. I missed the finer points of grammar, hoping I could make up for it in spelling and content. Don't judge me.) We decide we are, so far, winning Mexico. Evening was spent giggling for 5 hours with Carlos' family. His dad, stepmom, bouncy aunt and cute teenaged cousin treated me like family instantly. We cranked up the volume and flipped through someone's iPod, singing along and making up dances. After consuming a respectable amount of beer, we made our way to his grandparents' house- a nice place in the suburbs. Everyone curses heavily in Spanish. I understand enough to get most of the humor. Carlos tells everyone that I am trying to learn more of the language, that I understand a lot and to not bother with English. I think he thinks I understand more than I do but laughter doesn't need translation. And, I think it puts everyone at ease if they don't have to stop and wait for me to catch up on the meaning. Really, I would have had a wonderful time if I hadn't gotten even a word. I was able to get in on the jokes now and then, and everyone laughed even more. The humor here is pretty crude, by our standards: I would never make poo and sex jokes in front of my grandmother, but the graceful matriarch of this family pulled no punches. By the end of the night, we had inside jokes galore, a good beer buzz, and sore cheeks from laughing. This family reminds me of mine, only louder. I was so tired from jet lag and the altitude that I slept on Carlos' lap all the way home. I forget how exhausting it is to work in two languages, listening intently to every word that's said to catch one out of every five or ten that I understand. Responding is easier; I am able to get my point across pretty well with my relatively limited vocabulary. In Mexico, family is FAMILY!

Mexico City - Day 2: Los Pyramides

We awoke again to a chorus of car alarms and people shouting, namely the "Basuraaaaaaaa!" lady, and dressed quickly to make our way with Carlos Sr., "Tosh"' as Carlos calls him, and his sweet and hysterically funny girlfriend of 11 years- Vivi. She's thin and beautiful, with curly hair and a bright smile. I still do not understand why they call her "La Negra"' even after Carlos explaining that "she's the closest thing we get to black people here." Is it the hair? Driving in other countries is always an adventure, as the traffic rules here are more guidelines than rules, and you have to be very aware of the precise dimensions of your vehicle because that spatial awareness will be necessary for you to make any sort of turn or lane change. (again with the run-on sentences...) There will rarely be more than a few inches to spare. We drove north, through what they called the slums: hillsides packed with concrete box houses piled haphazardly atop one another as far as the eye can see. I did a school project with my dad once on the Hopi Indian houses where I built some clay squares on the side of a foam hill. These reminded me of that project, only in cartoonish color: if you have enough money, you can paint your house a garish pink or turquoise. Juxtaposed in even greater contrast than it might have been elsewhere against the grey of everything else, they were somewhere between cheerful and clownish. We drove finally out into the countryside, past giant agave plants and cactus to the ancient Aztec city of Teotihuacan. Had a lunch of wonderful soup and fajitas. Both Carlos' (Carloses? Carlos squared? The Carlos?) and Vivi patiently explained things on the menu to me. I realize that I rely too heavily on Carlos as a screen through which I'm experiencing things here. I do know enough Spanish to order my food, but I'm nervous about saying something wrong, so I defer to him. He is patient and encouraging, but I think he's a little annoyed, so I make a better effort today. I ask more and devote more of my energy to learning new words, too. Everyone chatters away in Spanish. I get a little more than a third of whats being said, but getting the gist is fine. We all drink some excellent tequila in honor of the waiter's birthday. The Carlos and Vivi make fun of everyone and everything. We laugh constantly. I have decided that my favorite vacations are the ones where I don't see any white people. I have loved jeweled beaches and ancient marble, but I get the most out of the little things like street food, local markets and the back streets that lead away from the tourist attractions. Getting to spend my time in another country with the people who live there, doing the things they do every day is a rare experience that's an oft-trumpeted ideal among traveling Americans. Some enjoy the cruise-ship style vacation, with umbrellas and invisible waitstaff. My generation, however, is looking for an adventure off the beaten path. It's important for us in our wanderlust to stay wary of becoming patronizing. I'm reminded of the hill tribe villages in northern Thailand: billed as an 'authentic' experience, it's nothing more than perpetuating the tragic dependence of a caricature of what once was a colorful and rich culture upon well-intentioned but poorly aimed "adventure" tourists. I don't want to be *that* tourist, but I don't want to be that hipster post-tourist poseur either. But more than any of this, I'm here to share these experiences with a friend. I'm here to explore a rare and priceless connection with another human being that could be happening anywhere in the world. The fact that it's happening here and there are other things to look at along the way is just icing on the cake. We cross the street to a huge old pyramid of stone. I'm told it's 2000 years old, and was a place of worship for the citizens of the city. There's a wall around it, and just inside the wall are a few men hawking jewelry and carved flutes. We smile and wave them politely away - I love how polite the hawkers are here- they approach, but aren't pushy. The trappings of this tourist trap are unostentatious. Surprisingly, the locals definitely outweigh the foreigners. 200 or so of stone steps that have been restored to their original terrifying steepness bring the 4 of us to the top, where Carlos and I sit on a ledge and paint each other pictures of what the people of Teotihuacan must have seen from there, so long ago. Per usual, we describe a gruesome scene, discussing the strange beauty of the pyramids covered in the blood of thousands of prisoners of war. We wax unironically poetic, quietly wallowing together in the drama and tragedy of our relationship and we promise, there atop the pyramid of the sun, to always love each other. And that in 10 years, if we haven't found someone better suited to our individual quirks that we'll find our way back to each other. Asking "who else?" we share a poignant kiss. Who else, indeed? Carlos, with a flair for the dramatic, brings an intensity and a creativity out in me that I feel like I had forgotten. He understands a big part of me- the performing part- in a way that others don't. We are both born performers: we live and die by the attention of an audience, and the satisfaction we can only get on a stage is the yardstick by which any other satisfaction in our lives is measured. Somehow, discussing life, love, and the pursuit of happiness, and declaring our undying love for each other doesn't seem at all ridiculous there atop the Pyramid of the Sun. Somehow it's quintessentially *us*. We descend, and walk off toward a smaller pyramid to the right- the Pyramid of the Moon, taking time to play with cartwheels and handstands on top of the crumbling walls. Carlos gets bitten by an ant. His dad takes pictures. We are uncharacteristically quiet. We return to the city in heinous traffic. Traffic in Mexico is like traffic in Seattle, only if it were in Seattle, it would stretch from Everett to Tacoma without relief. Stopping on an errand, I'm left alone with Vivi for a few minutes, and we make small talk in both languages. I learn the story of the birth of her 12 year old- when people learn I'm a labor & delivery nurse, they frequently share their birth stories- I love this. We get dressed up back at home, and take the metro and a taxi with Eric to a part of town called La Contessa, where there are hip and metropolitan-looking bars everywhere. We get a table upstairs in a sleek place that has blue lighting. My backless top draws a lot of attention. We get a table next to a door that opens into a giant walk-in freezer. The walls and bar and furniture are made of ice inside. An ice bar in Mexico City! We instantly adopt a lovely couple that are a little quiet and look nervous about our boisterousness. They talk to me in polite, broken English and I try to talk back in Spanish as much as I can. I'm doing better today in Spanish, having learned several new words this morning. Bottle service is required, so the 5 of us put a bottle of Stolichnaya to good use, and are soon the only people in the bar dancing, definitely having a better time than anyone else. Leslie and Manuel are still a little unsure of us, but are starting to cut loose a little. We of course learn the cheer that I have been teaching everyone I meet in bars for the last 4 months. I am always surprised when everyone enthusiastically takes part. Carlos and I laugh and take to the dance floor at one point, and as we are wont to do, improvise some flashy choreography that draws the attention of this half of the bar, and the applause of our table mates. Life is good. After shots and dancing in the ice bar, Eric's ex girlfriend Mary joins us, and we proceed with an epically fun night: drunkenly singing along with the Black Eyed Peas and Pitbull. Leslie and Manuel finally cut loose- laughing, taking pictures, and singing. There is no language needed, just noisy bar pantomime and lots of liquor. We kissed the bear carved from ice and laughed our way out. As far as we were concerned, no-one in the place had ever in their lives had as much fun as we had that night. I have had some good times in New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, and Jamaica, but this may have topped them all. We walk for what seems like miles to get back to Eric's house- now using more English than Spanish, which is a nice rest for me. I felt bad for Mary, being the only one who didn't speak English. We drink and smoke, Eric and Mary make spectacular quesadillas, and we curl up to sleep for an hour on a couch that would not have been nearly so comfortable if we had not bellies full of Stoli and cheese. The Metro opens at 5. At 6, we stumble and grin through walk-of-shame back to Casa de Carlos. Riding the metro at 6am in last night's clubbing clothes is a surefire way to draw more than a little attention. We're used to it, and ignore the stares as we cuddle in the corner.

Mexico City - Day 3: Coyoacan

We awake in the afternoon, and get lunch at a lovely little cafe in the spiderweb neighborhood next door. These flautas cure my hangover instantly, and are some of the the finest things I have ever eaten in my life. Carlos, predictably, gets a hamburger. We discuss our dissatisfaction with foreign food- American food in Mexico just isn't the same, either. We navigate the Metro again, and here on my 3rd day I now understand all the signs and how the different levels work, and finally hear the beep the signals that the doors are closing. Up to this point, I was always amazed by how everyone seemed to just know when to step back or get eaten alive by the unforgiving things. "No," Carlos smiled at me: "Mexicans are not genetically engineered with a subway-door instinct." First rule of the Metro: you do not trifle with the doors. Doors are DOORS! And they pack a wallop, so you listen for the beep. Next, a bus takes us to the little bohemian market in the Coyoacan neighborhood. It reminds me a little of the river walk area of San Antonio, or Chico, with well-kept streets and quaint brick walls. I expect a flamenco dancer to flounce around the corner at any moment. The market here is lovely, all sorts of lovely trinkets and baubles are there. Unlike some other markets I have been to, most of the stalls have unique wares- from miniature glass hummingbirds to intricately painted plates to leather wallets and purses and bracelets. It's very different from the cacophony of the Tepito area. Carlos buys a fire staff. I squeal with delight at the feather headbands. There are a few more white people shopping here, but it's still mostly Mexicans. We leave grinning, and take turns spinning the staff outside. It's a couple of hours until the party we will be attending tonight, so we wander. There's a sweet little park here, with children playing in a fountain and perfectly manicured boxwood hedges that curve and swirl around the trees. This Mexico city is quite charming. We find an amusing street performer with a bullhorn. Carlos translates his jokes to me, and we decide to follow the crowd to see where he's leading us: the Pied Piper in stripes and suspenders. We take our seats in what looks like it was once a sports court of some kind. This was a good idea. Two street clowns entertain us for the better part of 3 hours. Carlos graciously translates the jokes for me when I don't get them, but still- a clown is a clown. Slapstick humor needs no translation. They chose Carlos for the audience participation part (little did they know) where he made a perfect addition to their show: not quite stealing it, but playing along better than their usual rubes. They nicknamed him something that translated roughly to "The Pole Dancer" after making rude gestures with his new fire staff and poking fun at his ruggedly handsome looks. We left giggling, with laughs and slaps on the back for Carlos for being a good sport, and got some street food for dinner. We got a cup of coffee in a cafe around the corner, and watched the news about the earthquake that had just happened. We were apparently oblivious, walking through the park. I can't imagine that the two of us would be so wrapped up in our little world that we would miss a 6.8 earthquake... At a table in the back of a bar around the corner we joined a birthday party for Carlos' cousin. His friends, all actors, were polite and chic, engaging me despite my jeans and hoodie and poor Spanish. We drank and laughed through the night.

Mexico City- Day 4

Mexico City Day 4: Tepito We spend the morning just hanging around the hotel. Carlos sings me a song he wrote for me about the places he went in Europe and how he thought of me. Movies are made of this. The magic here is the stuff that makes muses out of ordinary people. Poets and singers weave their craft from the likes of us. It's what makes the world go round. Finally we muster the energy and hit the metro again for the craziness of Tepito. Our goal is to make it to the actual market itself, for more than the taste we got on the first day. It is colorful, noisy, jarring, here. Filled with people shoulder-to-shoulder perusing trinkets and baubles, clothes and shoes, frying pans, toy helicopters. Fake rhinestone jewelry and 'real' Levi jeans. Here, a 30 gallon plastic drum is filled to the top with white saucy liquid. The sign says 'Pantene shampoo'. You can buy anything in Tepito. This is the Chiangmai Night Market on the streets of New York, but in Spanish. And through a megaphone. And polite. Hawkers and shopkeepers shout to get attention: ("Bolsas! Bolsas! Bolsas! Bolsas!") but generally aren't pushy. They will point out the qualities of whatever tchotchke you're looking at, but there's no "hello looking!" or "come see come see!" I loved every minute of it. For whatever reason, I felt like I needed to keep moving through the crowds. I kept my purse in front of me, and kept aware of my surroundings, but I never once felt uncomfortable or afraid for my own safety. I was, however, in "Real Mexico" and can count on my fingers the number of gringoes I saw in my 4 days. We cruised into one store where I of course gaped at the array of fabulous wigs and rhinestone necklaces for sale. Heaven for a performer like me. I walked out with a gift or two for other people, a purple wig and a handful of jewelry for 1/3 the price it would have been in the states. Awesome! As we were weaving our way back through the streets, Carlos commented "and we didn't even get *into* Tepito!". We had apparently only reached the market's doorstep in those 7 or 8 blocks. Oh well, something for next time, then. Carlos' colorful friend Eric has a new apartment, so we visit him in a strange old house in the Zona Rosa or, Mexico City's version of the San Francisco Castro. Eric endures no small amount of ribbing for this. He, Carlos and another friend Pitbull make fun of each other mercilessly- nothing is off limits, and no-one's feelings seem to ever get hurt. To get to Eric's room, we go through an old wood door that looks like it belongs in Alice in Wonderland-climb the classic old-house creaky wood stairs and go down the hallway past several pieces of furniture and a still-wrapped mattress. Eric extols the virtues of the hot landlady. The four of us squeeze through a door and descend a shallow, narrow spiral staircase that appears to go to China, shimmy past a washer covered in copper plumbing parts and into Eric's kitchen. It's surprisingly clean and tidy, and so is his small room. He grins and shows off his new fuzzy blanket and the surroundings like a bird hopping about his nest, puffing his chest in pride about how attractive it might be to the female of the species. His machismo might be annoying in someone else, but in warm-hearted Eric, it's just amusing. The guys joke more, miming sex with a penholder and opening beers. I envy the bohemian life for a minute. I reflect on my house full of things that own me, and yearn a little for these guys' portability. Imagine the things I could *do* if there weren't so many things I *have*. Oh, to be able to pack all of my worldly possessions into a suitcase and move somewhere else whenever I got bored... On our way out, Eric stops by one of the larger unrented rooms closer to the main stairs. It has a queen sized bed and a very large desk. The rooms all come furnished, and quaintly decorated. I jump behind the desk and proclaim myself the President of Everything. Carlos rolls his eyes at me a little, but takes my picture anyway. He and I generally take turns: one of us taking an opportunity to be dramatic and the other feigning annoyance. See: yesterday's street performance. We bid Eric and Pitbull adieu and head for the metro station. Once on the subway car, we cuddle up to each other; suddenly painfully aware of how short our time is together. He admits a jealous moment- that he has such a short time with me, and I'm headed back to my other life with my other boyfriend. I allow him this, I'd probably feel the same. "Love as thou wilt" never meant it wouldn't hurt sometimes, just that we would never give in to the other's jealousy and place any limits on the free expression of love for ourselves and others. Carlos asks me: "have we ever had a boring conversation?" I can't think of one- we're both so ridiculous and different, and we've never had enough time together to get bored. I wonder if we ever would, if we were in the same place for any length of time... A late dinner with The Carlos consists of wonderful Mexican quesadilla filled with cheese and spicy chicken. I might die of spicy, but the flavor is so wonderful I eat it anyway and chase it with grapefruit soda. I get the chance to tell father and son how much fun I have had, and thanks for everything. Carlos Sr. graciously offers his house any time I come to visit, saying "my home is your home". His hospitality and grace comes in spades. I have been terribly lucky to have such wonderful hosts here. We stay awake until the wee hours of the morning, talking and doing the things that lovers do, the night before they're to say goodbye. It gets intense, as we cross a line we haven't dared before. It is sweet, then, as we hold eachother tenderly after, wondering what tomorrow will bring. Will this be the last time we are ever together? We promised, but will the Fates find it in their plans to follow through? Will we really search high seas and rocky shores, sailing far and wide through great adventures, only to find that light of hope and home shining through the years to bring us back again to this: wrapped snugly within each others arms? Who knows. If the answer is no, then I'll surely look back and smile, and remember the short time that we shared, but a great love that will always live in my heart.

Italy -Day 1 memories

3 planes brought us to Rome. We wandered to the train station, where it occurred to me my friend had been stabbed last year. This actually doesn't say as much about the sketchiness of the area as it does the mouthiness of my friend, but still, the thought crossed my mind... We had 3 hours to kill, so we left luggage and more exhausted travel companions in search of Italian Beer. We found it easily enough, and made our way giddily back through the tunnels of the train station to the platform where our friends waited. In classic American style, we proceeded to enjoy our tasty adult beverages with gusto and bravado, there in the open platform. The station workers wandered by, chattering to each other in Italian - I'm not sure whether they were rolling their eyes at our brazenness, or eyeing my multicolored hair (it's Easter! My pink-and-purple coiff isn't rebellious, it's festive...) but either way, they made several purposeful orbits around our haggard crew and went on their way without engaging us. We kept drinking. Once on the train, we disembarked again in Arezzo, charged with buying a couple of days worth of groceries for the rest of the group. With only 45 minutes to do so, we raced across the square to the supermercado! I adore going grocery shopping in foreign countries- the different arrangements, sizes, groupings and packaging of familiar goods fascinates me. Here, you can only buy tomatoes in shrink-wrapped packages of 6. The myriad varieties of prosciutto are overwhelming, and the pasta..... Oh, the pasta! However, there were only three varieties of cereal. There's a cartoonish, dreamlike quality about foreign supermarkets. Thankfully the money is a little cartoonish as well, so I have no idea what it all cost. After racing back across to the train station, we shuffled across 4 train platforms and hauled everyone's 50lb bags up the narrow stairs onto the train, we settled into a few seats and waited for the train to depart. And waited... And waited. And a lovely Italian woman leaned over to us and said in a nice accent: "You do know that this train doesn't go to Bucine, don't you?" We all did a double-take of eachother as our brains slowly but collectively registered the sign outside this train that said "7:20" and then the sign outside the next train that said "7:05" and then our watches that said "7:03"... and bolted for the door. We scrambled to unload all of our exhausted bodies, 50lb bags and copious amounts of expensive Italian cartoon groceries and re-load all of the above onto the next train over. We flopped into new seats just as the train doors closed. And so here I am: sitting in the foyer of an 18th century, 5-story 'villa' (mansion by any american standards). These three tall doors open into a cool Tuscan breeze heavy with old grapes, crumbling brick, fresh bread and laughter. I sit on this couch, thinking: it really, truly doesn't get any better than this.

Italy- The beginning

Italia. Cigarette-smoking trains huff in their station slots.  Drying clothes, trousers and dresses wave at us from their perches on lanai railings.  I don't know the Italian word for lanai. 
I don't know any other Italian words, for that matter, but I know that this crying child heaves her tears in the same language as every other child on earth. I know that this bathroom, with it's frosted-glass and one euro entrance... is out of toilet paper, too.
Just like the ones in Seattle and Chicago.
There are buildings hoary with TV antennae and the praying mantis legs of power lines above us. 
We drift through an insect world, all squeaks and rumbles, chewing at something, anything, everything.
I ate a cheese and bread breakfast this morning over tulip fields in the Netherlands.
And even now, gliding down a steel rail through Rome with six colors of spray paint that I can see on the tagged wall through a window on my left
and a centuries-old ruin of brick and moss on my right,
Even now,
my world grows smaller and brighter and closer to home.

Italy Day 2

"Seven people with me!" bellowed the villa owner, Fabio. Seriously, people are actually named 'Fabio'? This isn't something someone just made up? Some of our group were thoroughly enjoying their wine, and less interested in the impromptu tour, so they stayed behind while 5 of us grabbed our cameras and hopped into his van. Also: seriously? The local guy offers a TOUR OF TUSCANY and you aren't beside yourself with excitement? I don't understand these people. Chance. Of. A. Lifetime. Whatever. Camera in hand, my mom and I grinning and pinching each other in the back seat, Fabio drove us through the winding roads from Bucine to Cennina to Montevarchi. He played the perfect guide, telling the story of that bridge that was built by the Romans before Jesus (!), and this village that was rebuilt after World War 1 by foreign exchange students in a clever scheme by the great-grandfather of the potter who lives there still. He pointed out the castle over on the hill that was lost in a poker game. He told us about the two sisters who own adjacent vineyards but don't get along - on either side of the road lie two fields of grapes: one with perfectly manicured vines, and the other growing wild because the one who has the machine that processes the grapes won't lend it to the other one. He waved and called out to friends. Hours later, we arrived back at the villa armed with hundreds of pictures to share with those who had stayed behind. Tonight, Fabio is cooking Easter dinner for 20-some of his family. We aren't invited (we're cooking our own), but we feel a little like his family all the same. Molto bene! I'm off to drink more of this amazing wine that our host gave us- made in the vineyard across the street, eat some more tomatoes and vinegar, and watch the sun set over green hills. 'Till tomorrow!

Italy- Day 3

We make coffee here one cup of espresso at a time. We dilute it with hot water and sugar and milk from a box that says "Latte!" and we enjoy it for hours with cigarettes and good company on our small balcony that overlooks the valley. We laugh constantly. Yesterday was an adventure in getting more food. We had eaten up most of our expensive italian cartoon groceries and were left with one package of dry pasta, two pears, a diet coke, some Swiss chard and only 2 bottles of wine (!). There's a joke there about inviting a reality cooking show chef next time, but I'm not sure what it is... Also, the entire country has been closed for Easter. Only the bars are open. So, we made our way into Montevarchi, which is the next town along the train, as we had heard about a farmer's market there. 5 of us traipsed through the cobbled streets and alleys to find the food market closed, but we came across a few card-table vendors selling ragged antiques- costume jewelry, vinyl records, vintage clothing and the like. We loved sifting through old Italian baubles. The group quickly realized that I have learned enough Italian/ understand enough Spanish to be able to sort of catch every fifth word and get an idea of what is being said to be able to ask directions and haggle over prices. They love this. The Italians were generally as amused by us are we were by them, and we all had fun buying trinkets. Italians stare at my hair everywhere we go. We all stare back and giggle. We giggle at everything. We didn't find food, but we did find a little restaurant on the corner by the train station that had a bottle of wine for us. We told stories, laughed more, and raised our glasses to toast the small vial of my grandmother's ashes that my mom had brought with her (she always does). I love this. I am so so thankful that I get to continue along and have incredible experiences like this. That the universe sees that I am fit to live and love and laugh one more day. I am blessed. We ate a feast, last night, somehow concocted from our bare cupboards, and are off today to Venice! More laughing!

Venizia! Day 4

Day 4 was amazing. Venice! An island and a culture and a whole world! It's kind of a caricature. A Disneyland of Italy. The 4-hour train ride dropped us at the spectacular station that opened onto a grand staircase that overlooks the Grand Canal. Lovely! And then we waited in line. And waited in line. And waited in line some more for boat tickets, and the boat and this or that. I kind of wanted to wander, to get lost and find myself there in the the winding, angled streets, but I didn't and that's just fine. I saw square orange shutters, grapes over a trellis, and the gorgeous colors of silk scarves waving in the ocean breeze. I didn't actually get to any more of Venice than I could see from the train station or a boat, but wandering through shop after shop full of hunks of glass in every size, shape, and configuration you can imagine was enough. We took the boat through the grand canal and got off at the first stop in Murano- the glass factory island. After the first 3 shops, little was unique- like every other tourist trap in the world. But to see globes of red and orange evoke a frozen sunset or a Picasso masterpiece was wonderful. Please note that I am not complaining, but comparing, and given a chance to examine my jaded reflex thoughts: choosing wonder, amazement and whimsy instead. After cruising miles of canals around Murano, we found the boat again and started our long journey home. We were delighted to find that the stop we had chosen was only the first, and were treated to a lovely tour of Murano island for the next 5 stops. All the canals, the quaint shuttered apartments, the lovely little patio gardens (everyone grows food here!)... Seeing the different levels where the water rises and falls - the island is sinking! As our crowded boat ride came to an end, I waited for everyone to get out of the way so we could get back on dry land (on a side note, I still get a little unsettled at going on boats, hoping that I can get off when everyone else does- see my complaints about Mal de Debarquement Syndrome...), and when I realized that the people on this side of the boat weren't getting off, I turned and walked quickly around to follow the crowd off. When we got to the sidewalk, we all patted ourselves and counted heads and realized... My mother was gone. Gone? No, she didn't just get off ahead of us... She isn't reading her map around this corner... No, she isn't shopping across the street here... She still isn't reading here map there. No, she isn't on the other end of the dock here. Are you my mother? Ok, what are the possibilities here? A. She got off ahead or behind us and we just haven't seen her yet. B. She didn't see us get off for some reason and is still on the boat. C. Italian thugs grabbed her on her way off and are dragging her off to do something untoward with her. D. She found some Italian hottie, fell in love at first sight and took off with him. E. She slipped and fell off the other side of the boat. These being my possibilities, or all that any of us could come up with at the moment, what are our choices for outcomes? A. We just have to turn around and check around the corner 3 or 4 more times and she will magically appear. B. She will get off at the next stop or wait until the boat turns around to come back and find her way back to us. C. She will kick and bite and scratch and fight her way loose and find her way back with an incredible story. D. She will fail to do so, and we will never see her again... Lets pause. It is only at this point in my thought process that I begin to worry about my mom. She is an incredibly strong, resourceful, and intelligent woman (where do y'all think I get it from- I'm only half my father's daughter...) and I just kept thinking "She found me in Thailand, she can find her way back here."- if the woman can survive two husbands, a hellion teenager like me, nursing school, and southeast Asia, she can figure this one out. She *my* momma. E. We will never see her again, but we will get occasional postcards from Peru and Antarctica, but she will be terribly happy. F. She is on her way to a quick watery grave. I quickly decided that A or B were the most likely outcomes, and then just put energy into making us easy to find. I figured I'd think about the others if they became even remotely possible at any point. Ten minutes later, Shannon ran up "I found your mom!" and we were happily reunited. My poor cousin, who was convinced that my mom had been abducted, cried for a minute and then we all left in search of wine. Our adventure for the day over, we enjoyed a lovely dinner next to the canal, laughing over plates of amazing food and innuendo about the waitstaff. She had indeed accidentally stayed on the boat, but got off at the next stop and ran back to where she had last seen us, holding her funny black and white bag over her head the whole way so that we could find her, too. Are you my mother?

The Best Gelato in the World

Old friends in new places. Started the day with another train ride through the lovely countryside into Firenze to meet up with a friend who is living nearby. She and I spun fire together a while ago, before she moved to Vegas for the magic, but lost it there and then followed a cute boy here. (nevermind my run-on sentences, I'm telling a story here, not writing a paper...) We met outside the McDonalds in the train station - for those of you who know her, she looks incredible. Italy has been good to her. We wandered the lovely street market that was reminiscent of the Chiang Mai night market. It was full of ties, leather goods, handbags, colorful scarves, things to wear and have and drink out of for blocks and blocks. I bought a couple of things, she haggling a little for me with the vendors- they seem less poor here, less desperate and more truly friendly. They liked my hair. At a booth selling fabulous leather coats, we ended up in the back of the shop with the man whose name was embroidered on the tag of the coats- Claudio - who, it turns out, spent 3 years in school in Helena, Montana of all places, and spoke wonderful English. We swapped wreck stories- he had a big scar on his cheek from going over the handlebars of his motorcycle, and talked about politics, dreams, ignorant Americans and language. We drank and talked for an hour or two, and I left with his email address, an expensive coat and a priceless experience. Our next adventure took us through the streets of Firenze to the Piazza del Signorine and the Duomo. Oh, the marble. I love the moment that I realized that this spectacular building (The Duomo) is not *painted* white and green, it is ridiculously ornate marble macro-mosaic. Did I say it was huge? In the corner of the piazza was a sort of open-air museum, where you walk up the steps to see 14 marble statues- the Rape of the Sabine women, Hermes holding the head of Medusa, and others. I am fascinated by the combination of realistic detail and stylized proportion in these statues. It is as if someone hit the "pause" and "zoom" buttons on a scene 400 years ago. They're almost twice as big as a person, with curly-q hair and very focused eyes (intense statue is intense.) and carved from stone in lovely detail. How does one carve this stone so perfectly, down to the anatomically correct placement of veins bulging out of cream-colored forearms, to the fingers pressed into a woman's leg... So amazing! After picking my jaw up off the floor, we continued along down toward the river and Pontevecchio- the bridge full of jewelry shops, and wound through couple of narrow cobblestone alleyways to a tiny gelato shop. I had had gelato in Venice, but my friend said that there really is a difference between good and bad gelato and that *this* was the best gelato she had found in Florence. And it was. The Snozzberries taste like Snozzberries. I had cream flavor and grapefruit flavor and this gelato isn't artificially flavored, it's Ike the very best parts of eating a fruit or whatever else whipped into a cloud and frozen. Comparing this gelato to American ice cream is like comparing the finest microbrews to Coors. Like a Maserati and a Pinto. Like a ballerina and a lumberjack. The mint flavor my friend had did not taste like a washed-up Altoid, it tasted like actual mint leaves. When was the last time you had an actual mint leaf? It really was the best Gelato in the whole world. We finished our cones and kept going, headed back toward the train station to meet her lovely Italian boyfriend for dinner. A couple of Italian guys bought us beers and tried to climb in our pockets to come home with us, but we shook them off and caught up with him quickly. We laughed and talked over a fabulous dinner of steak and rabbit and pasta and wine and bread and cheese and prosciutto and all the wonderful things you eat in Italy. It was late when we finished, and the restaurant was closing, but we kept talking and Lovely Italian Boyfriend asked the waiter for a 'digestive'- an after-dinner (aperitif?) liqueur. It tasted like Jagermeister, only instead of licorice was a pleasant rosemary flavor. Rosemary liquor! Who knew? Then the restaurant owner cruised by with some glasses and a large bottle of some orange adult beverage. He dropped the glasses on the table, and filled them while making some small talk. He raised his glass, "To life!" in a wonderful Italian accent, downed it, and knocked the empty shot glass on the table. We followed suit, but failed to smack the glasses on the table, at which he corrected us: "you don't knock, you don't fuck!" which came out as "yau don' nauck, yau don' fauck!" (Pardon my french- but I'm going for realism here...) We knocked vigorously, and laughed with him and the waitstaff. We danced to the too-loud Abba that was playing on the radio, we drank more shots of orange liquor (Arancelo, dubbed "Fucking Arancelo" by the end of the night), some lemon flavored kind, (Limoncelo), and another kind of the herb stuff, toasting to "Life!" to "This night!", to "the people in your life who come and come again (which I took to mean loyal and loving friends- of which I have many. So, so many... And was apropos, being at dinner with a friend that I have happily not lost track of over the years.) and knocked shot glasses on the table, the chairs, the walls, eachother... until we stumbled our thank-yous out the door long after midnight. Sincere and heart-felt fun. I was thankful to not have to find a train this late, and this intoxicated- Lovely Italian Boyfriend (who had far fewer shots than my friend and I) drove us back to their apartment in the next town, where we laughed and talked more until the fabled Tuscan sun chased us into bed. Love, it flows like wine.