Okay this was from the first week in March. Better late than never, right?

Interlaken

I know it is long, but again, this is my journal of my trip, and I really don’t want to forget anything. Read it as you like. Or don’t read it at all. Either way, I won’t know. I am so tired from walking and sightseeing and all I really want to do is take a nap, but I know that if procrastinate jotting down what I’ve seen in the last week I will begin to forget and be so angry at myself. With that, we left Grandma’s for Switzerland. We had heard amazing things about this little town called Interlaken and decided that is where we should pursue. It is this little town up in the mountains, along a lake. It’s so little that you can walk from one side to the another in 20 minutes. We in fact were “lost” at one point in time only to discover that we were already on the other side of town.

Here is where I stayed my first night in a *gasp* hostel. Not too shabby. Basically, it’s like summer camp, for adults. Well not even adults, as there were 300 college kids staying the same night we were, acting like a bunch of banshees. So I will compare it to living in the dorms/fraternity/sorority, which I never have, but I would assume it to be quite similar. A bunch of 18-22 year olds, getting drunk, acting obnoxious, hooking up, not knowing what to do with all this new found freedom. Hostels do have there pros and cons. Pro: Relatively expensive and on the clean side. Con: You are at the mercy of when others go to sleep and wake up. Pro: Meeting others in your age demographic. Con: Community showers.

Alicia brought up back in December that we should invest in a pair of flip flop, JUST IN CASE, we may ever need them. At a surf wear sale, I picked up a pair for her and I, wrapped them and coined them as Christmas presents. I would have paid 10 times the amount I did. From our years in the aquatic sport arena we have become quite competent at showering in a short amount of time, wretched conditions, limited space and low water flow. I am so glad that I am able to laugh at myself because the whole time I am attempting to get undressed, shower, dry off and then clothed, I am incessantly giggling. I could just imagine it being filmed and used as a satire of hostels.

After our first night in Interlaken, we took the train up the mountain, to a gondola which ascended up the mountain, to another tram which scaled up the mountain. We were at the top at a little town, literally on the side of the mountain called Murren. Amazing. We were above the clouds. Almost at the same level of some glaciers on an opposing mountain. I have never seen so much snow in my life. It being only my fourth time in snow, this wasn’t very hard to do. But, wow. I had to keep reminding myself, “You are in the Swiss Alps in the winter. You are in the Swiss Alps in the winter.” For a California beach bum, this is an overwhelming feat. One that I will surely never forget.

Zermatt

We left Interlaken and headed to Zermatt. Again up into the mountains, but about two hours south of Interlaken. The furthest south you can get before Italy. Zermatt is famous for something that I have only seen racing on the 5 freeway, through Anaheim, with a monster inside… The Matterhorn. I think it is important to point out that I didn’t know that I was in store for the Matterhorn until getting there. Pretty exciting. We arrive in Zermatt and begin heading to the hostel, we had only sent in a reservation for and not heard a response.

Apparently if you are a skier/snowboarder you know that it is “high season” and that EVERYTHING is booked solid and then some. As in people literally sleep on the floors of hostels. The hostel gods were on our side that day. We headed to our hostel and were informed that they did not respond because they were full and that everywhere else would be full as well. But they did us a favor and called another hostel. Booked. Just as we were about to give up all hope, some skiers let us know that they would be leaving that night, a night early in their stay, and would give us their room. Awesome. Oh, and they paid for our breakfast at the hostel because they were able to get a full refund since we would be paying for that night. Awesome. Score. Can’t get any better.

We ask the guy working reception what the best cheese fondue dinner place was as I noticed a few on our way up. He mentioned one that was the best and added that a local hotel had a really good bar with live music for afterward. Perfect. We head to the restaurant and find out they are booked solid for that night, but suggest another, 25 meters away. Are we sensing a trend? We head to the “second best” restaurant, take a sit, order a half-liter of their recommended rouge and relax. Our cheese fondue heads to the table and the aroma of gruyere and white wine engages me immediately. We don’t eat our dinner, we savor our dinner. It is a dance, the eating of cheese fondue, really good cheese fondue. You don’t just eat, you engage the meal. From stabbing the perfect piece of chewy bread, to swirling around the bubbling cheese, to blowing off the steam so it is just the right amount of warm, but not scalding cheese, to placing it directly into your mouth, is quite an experience. One I will surely never forget. Of course we head over to the bar for a few beers, meet some nice guys from Wales, and then call it a night.

Fun Fact: People from Wales claim it is a different country than Great Britain and have their own language. Also, they informed us that only people from California will say, “I am Californian” when asked where they are from. Every other state says, “American.”
The next day we get our gear together, eat our “free” breakfast, and head up the path to the spectacular, unobstructed view of the Matterhorn. Amazing, absolutely breathtaking, can’t believe I saw it with my own two eyes. We bid adieu to Zermatt, get on the train, head to Geneva. First a nap because we did stay out quite late the night prior. When I awake, it’s always like I’m in a different world. Zermatt was Christmasland, whereas the road to Geneva is next to a lake, surrounded by trees.

Geneva

We arrive in Geneva, again with no reservations. It has been HOURS (capitalized because I am unaware as to the specific amount of time, but know that it was too many) since we have eaten. The first thing we must do is locate food otherwise we both know that after our bodies deteriorate from lack of food, our friendship is on the line. After a steaming plate of Beef Panang Curry we are refreshed and ready to face the next challenge, locating shelter. This trip really does boil down to basic necessity at times. Food, water, shelter, clothing. But clothing is always first because our suitcases weigh over 60 pounds and lugging them everywhere is a constant reminder.

Again I reiterate, my life is a movie. Two American girls, no reservation, huge rolling suitcases, over often times cobble stone roads, hooker on the corner, whistles from good looking Swiss boys, looking like train wrecks, maneuvering through the crazy streets of seedy Geneva. I can’t help but smile thinking about it.

By the way, no need to go to Geneva. I’ve been there for the both of us. Seedy, smelly, dirty, better just stay away. Since Alicia and I met during college sports, much of our training on what I call “efficiency” is similar. As in, we act as a team, much of the time. And in the most efficient manner possible. “Okay, I’ll watch the stuff while you go in that hotel.” “Okay, go.” I almost feel like saying “BREAK” after we end a conversation because we always accomplish so much, in such a short amount of time.

Our plan of attack: I stand on the side walk with the suitcases, Alicia hit the 2 or 3 closest hotels and get the prices for one night, 2 doubles/1 queen. Whichever looked the least shady, while providing the least price wins. Everything is a competition to me. Everything.

We settle for the hotel that looked really nice and offered a room for a special rate of 150 Euros, off the normal 200 Euro rate, since it was already 7:30 on a Sunday night. Alicia suggested 140 Euro to the nice man at the desk and he accepted. We heard 140 Euro from another hotel and thought we would give it a whirl.

Fun Fact: Two girls from California traveling through Europe receive much different attention, free-bees, help, guidance, suggestions, directions, specials, than say two guys traveling through Europe, or a guy and a girl for that matter. There is just something about the one local man and two foreign girl dynamic that works in our favor more than I would like to admit. We settle into our room, take much needed hot showers, and get dolled up the best we can, for a much needed glass of wine.

The next day, we head to Old Town Geneva, take our pictures, see one of the tallest fountains in the world, and it’s back to the train station for another 2 hour trip. This time to Lyon, France.

Lyon

“I can’t believe I am actually making it to see France.” Something I’ve realized about Europe is you don’t need to be told when you are crossing a border or heading into a different city, the landscape does the talking. I make it a point to pay attention to the scenery as much as possible, as opposed to reading or writing, because there is just so much to see. Switzerland fades from these huge lakes and mountains, into the French countryside, of fields, crops and orchards.

We get to Lyon and search for our hostel, where we actually have a reservation. I get us lost. My 60 pound suitcase feels like 100 with the handle that’s broken from my irresponsible usage. I drape my larger of two coats across the top, and place my backpack on the top as well. It was either kill my shoulders or my hand in this scenario, I chose the lesser of two evils. We are extremely turned around and not all the streets are on our map. How convenient. A man comes to our aid, so we think, ask us in French where we are going and we point to it on the map. He points in every direction, while only speaking in French, and suggest we follow him to the left. I have my senses enough about me to know that they left was exactly the wrong answer and would continue to where we just came from, which was exactly the wrong direction. I exclaim, “No thank you. Merci. Merci. Goodbye.” We evaded our first scam. We talked about it for a few minutes, as it is kind of like meeting a celebrity. You talk about it and think about it and create scenarios in your head, and then BOOM! It’s in your face and you don’t realize that it’s happening until it’s over and they walk away.

We make it to our hostel, which is actually a hotel, but offers hostel prices of 30 Euro a night, shower up and head out to find food. We find a sandwhich shop and delight ourselves with prosciutto paninis. Delicious.

Then we go back to those places where we were just lost with luggage, and leisurely take our pictures. Although Lyon is the second largest city in France, next to Paris, it is not nearly as touristy and just as beautiful. Old apartments line the cobblestone roads, their red roofs gleaming the late afternoon sun. Two larger rivers navigate their way through the busy city. After pictures we take quick naps and head to a late dinner. We have mastered finding the best places to eat. You take your time, look at all the signs, check prices, read the menus, cross referencing any French words that I know from hours of watching the food network, but mostly looking how many people are inside. We settle on a place that has a simple menu, typically meaning they specialize in what they serve. We are thrilled when they bring us menus in English, even though I already decided from the French menu what I would be dining on that evening. Beef with blue cheese sauce and Gratin something for me, Lamb with vegetables for Alicia. But we would split our meals either way as to get the most taste. Another absolutely amazing meal. People in Europe do it right, they savor the meal, they dine on the food and the wine, and relax with the company. Meals here are not merely to replenish the calories consumed by the body, but chance opportunities to engage another person into a meaningful, mutually beneficial conversation. Alicia and I, not ones to argue with this mantra, find ourselves starting our meal at a little before 9:30 and getting up from the table at 11. ELEVEN O’ CLOCK people. On a Monday night. And the place was still packed. What do people here do? Don’t they have jobs? Do they survive on just two hours of sleep at night? This is just silly. But I love it. So laid back. No worries. It’s almost as if no one can have a boss, because that would just ruin the party.

The next day we again, thanks to my often times poor sense of direction find ourselves wandering aimlessly around the streets of Lyon for two hours, before finally reaching the point we settled out to overcome. An enormous church on the top of a cliff overlooking the city. We knew the view would be amazing and we were right. In all of our travels, it seems that those that are the most difficult to reach, take the most time finding, or are the most taxing to overcome, are those that are ultimately the most rewarding. As if the panoramic view wasn’t rewarding enough, we treat ourselves to Coca Cola Light and Perrier, as we sip like queens.

Thought for the Day

She grew drunk off the mid-day sun, the sound of the river lapping against the shore and the breeze brushing whisps of hair against her olive complexion. Thousands of people, young and old alike, lined the grassy bank encroaching upon the shore. Even amongst as tranquil of a scene, she dreaded the inevitable. The "Unknown" inevitable. Of what would become of her, post-grad school. She enrolled for another four years, not to become well-versed in the field of "Cultural Anthropology of the Aboriginal Samoans," but because she was petrified that one day she may be asked, and consequently expected to respond, the inevitable question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

She forced the question and the subsiding nausea into the deep recesses of her mind. Right now she was determined to put all of her strength, energy and power into "enjoying the moment." It frightened her that she could recall exactly how long it had been since she took a second to admire the clouds and their melodic metamorphisis from a skeleton to a bear on a ball to a television. The last time she felt this alive was the afternoon of her first kiss to her first boyfriend, some nine years prior. With that, she vowed to once a week, pause for long enough to look up. But even that, she knew, wasn´t how she wanted to live.

Man #1

These were the people she would surround herself with. The man on the train who gnaws on his nails, although his mouth appeared to be completely devoid of any teeth from where she was sitting. Who adjusts himself for a few more seconds than what a member of the opposite sex would be comfortable in the presence of. Whose stench lingers through the cabin and can be picked up from a few feet away. Who systematically fold his newspaper with an annoying intensity. He leans back and looks over with a smug acknowledgement. His greasy comb over repulsing her to the very core. He plunges his hand into his pocket. She returns her gaze to the window, to the country side she internalized so many times before. Only to catch a glimpse in the reflection of him staring intently at her, willing for her to return the admiration. These were the people she would encounter, wonder their story and continue on her way.

Recent developments since leaving "The States"

-My complexion is the most fair it has ever been. Not flattering. Definitely missin’ that So Cal sun. But at least this way I fit in better with everyone over here.

-I have not gone shopping since I left, which in all honesty is the most difficult part of traveling. BUT I have acquired a few Europe “necessities” to “enhance” my experience. Two pairs of earring in Holland, a purse in Brussels, shoes in London and a jacket in Ireland. One of the pairs of earrings was birthday gift from Alicia's aunt, the purse and impulse buy, the shoes because I really needed some cute flats other than my running shoes, and the jacked because my other black wool coat was left on a bus after over 12 hours of straight traveling.

-The biggest predictor of change being that I have ceased to nervously nibble at my nails. A disgusting habit I acquired as a anxious Type A toddler. I use hand sanitizer constantly here because things just feel dirty. So the nail biting first ceased because I am now a self proclaimed Germaphobe. But I now find that even with that fact aside, I am now just a less anxious, nervous person in general. Fairly difficult feat to be worried when traveling through paradise, but still. We have encountered some very stressful situations, but rather than my first reaction to be of overreaction, we just deal. We have become masters at getting all the options we can, weighing the pros and cons, determining the “best” outcome and deciding accordingly. Basically, because of this trip I’m just better than all of you.

Apparently, I have a lot to say.

She lay awake, her mind swirling with concern. She had always worried about her family and their “issues” because, after all, she was a part of the equation. It was that stage of her life when one overcomes the overwhelming realization that your parents, although responsible for your making, are really just scared individuals unsure as to their past decisions. Entering that period of her life was something she could have never predicted. And even if she could, she would have never been prepared enough. The time when one must actually make decisions that had real outcomes. The time when words that were spit during a fight could make a break a relationship. When choices decided changes in the outcome of one’s happiness, livelihood, well being.

She lay there listening to her breathing, making sure her roommate couldn’t hear the quiet padding of tears on her pillow. She focused on breathing deep, ensuring she wouldn’t need to eventually catch her breath, a sure sign of her crying and weakness. She didn’t know why she was upset. Nor could she figure out which thought to focus on. This constant unsolvable anxiety made her more upset. Hot tears ran down her heavy head, soaking her pillow and neck of her t-shirt. “Alligator tears” as her mom used to call them. “Alligator tears” she would eventually describe them as in an attempt to alleviate her child’s sadness.

She didn’t know how many nights she had fallen asleep like this. Of the many thoughts running laps through her head she was able to decipher a few. 1) She was extremely overwhelmed with past events and their current repercussions. 2) That she couldn’t find and immediate resolution to the issues at hand. 3) This was only a stage in her life, and like all others, it too in time would pass. But for now, this was the issue at hand. That for right now nothing had been as painful, as thought provoking, or as alienating. She didn’t know what came first, the sleep or the end of the tears. Did the tears continue through her dreaming or did the sleep alleviate her anxieties?

Either way, she was glad to enter that magical part of each persons day when the day is put on pause, only to resume a few short hours later, but in each person’s control of whether they will resume past the previous events or continue where one commenced.

Thought for the Day...

I’m beginning to realize that everyone has a story. Complete with chapters, climatic advances, character development, foreshadowing, antagonist, protagonist, etc. Some feel their story is already written, that no matter what they do the threads will unravel revealing their ending. Others know that they are not only the lead, but also the writer, director, producer and editor.
Some have already decided how their story will end, whether it be heartbreak, death, despair, surrounded by family, tragedy, comedy, inspiring, discouraging. Most write our stories based on the previous experiences of other. Girl meets boy, falls in love, perfect wedding, 2.5 kids, 3.4 cars. Others know how to change the plot to suit their current preferences. Some “will” their story to change enough, only to later blame the results on others, out of denial of the realization that they are the real writer.

Our taste in that which personifies us changes to suit our current chapter. Whether socially, culturally, physically or emotionally driven; we are a product of our surroundings. The “Grieving Widow” who dresses in all black, throughout her “Mourning Period,” the Doctor donning scrubs in his “Career Chapter,” the “Starving Student” in the Sweat Pant wearing “Education Period.” The soundtrack follows similar fashion. The “Stoner High School Dropout” baking to Led Zeppelin, the “Aspiring D.J.” in his “Rep Building Chapter,” the “New Mother” listening religious to Mozart and Bach in attempt to better the future of her offspring.

Why do some know the power they possess to change the outcome, while others are convinced the writing is on the walls? Do those who understand their power lead more “enriched” lives or cause themselves more sadness when the outcome is not what they plotted? If my life has already followed a story line that I am not a born artist, firefighter or astronaut, does that mean that I never have the potential to make a influence in those arenas?

Has every story already been read? Have enough people begun from start to finish to leave no ending an “original,” no chapter a “first time,” no experience a “one and only?’ I’d like to think of myself as an individual human being, but has someone already lived my story, from start to finish, relayed it to others and know the ending. Are there only so many ways to rewrite history and thus an ending? Has my “twin” from another decade experienced the same emotions, situations and reactions in the same order and survived to tell it?

As original as I think I am, am I really just reliving someone’s story? The only difference being the music, fashion and slang of the time period? When chapters conclude in manners we did not predict, do we attempt to control the next so that the ending is more congruent? Are “control freaks” controlling the lines, the plot, the characters or the ending of the story?

*Ahem* I have a question...

Are people born great or is greatness something that is acquired? Seeing all the infamous works of art in person, composed by the likes of Manet, Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, Dali, etc. makes one think. How rare do people such as themselves grace us with their presence? Why is it that no recent artists are as celebrated as those aforementioned? Dali created works most recently out of the list with his final works dating the 1970’s. Have we concluded our “greats” in the area of art? Is there no more room in the Louve or other well known museums for new artists to leave their mark? Or is it that we are too ignorant, arrogant or narrow minded to recognize greatness until it is too late?

I would assume most of the artist did not become famous until after they passed away. Thereby making their works in higher demand as there was a finite supply of works to sample from. Are people considered “greater” only after it is too late for them to prove us incorrect? Are people perceived “better” after they are gone because we forget about the positive and negative outliers of behavior, and conclude an opinion based on an overall average of “greatness?” On the “greatness” continuum where do I fall? Surely I have made some accomplishments which may be considered “grand” on my scale, yet mundane to others. And possess traits I regard as “average” which others may deem rare and highly sought.

Is greatness relative when compared to those we have encountered in our lifetime? When surrounded by greatness do our own successes not appear as worthy? Is it more beneficial to surround ourselves with those we perceive as “greater,” “comparable” or “less of a threat?”
Sitting next to two young men at the Grand Palace in Brussels. One sketching the aging walls, the other gingerly cradling a cigarette between two fingers, furiously scribbling passionate thoughts on his notepad. Do these gentlemen have what is takes to be considered a “great?” The artist appeared to be quite talented. The writer only pausing briefly to gaze up, observe his next inspiration, and continue. Am I sitting in the midst of a future Hemingway and Manet? Will I not know it until they are no longer able to speak for themselves?

Or are people only great is we are able to divide their lives into different parts? The Blue period v. the Rose period of Picasso, the Rise v. the Fall of an Emperor, the Depression v the Euphoria of a Poet. Do our lives need to be compartmentalized displaying varying periods of difficulty followed by triumph in order to prove ourselves to others? In order to some way make in the most unobtainable ego human?

Are some people unworthy of greatness? As in undeserving, incapable or too simple minded. Those who have never experienced success, but at the same time will never experience defeat. Those people who are merely brought to this planet “to exist.” Thus giving others a point of reference of how not to be. “You must work hard so you don’t end up like them.” The elusive, overwhelming image of becoming one of “them.” Those who measure greatness not by how others view them, but by the love in their heart and the family sitting at the table.

Cecilia Part II

Cecilia Part II

The transformation came and went. She would agree that she looked different as promised, but still felt the same. She still had the same loneliness, emptiness, longing for change as ever. Change into what, away from what, for what she could not say. But she knew that if she did not take her own life into her hands, her continued unhappiness was inevitable. She had many friends who had been in similar circumstances. Whether by their own doing through divorce, or without their say through death. Some overcome the adversity, others became reclusive. Sightings occasionally happening at grocery stores. Sightings so rare that they would be gossiped about for weeks.


She took the advice of those that triumphed and joined local dance clubs, picked up golfing, even enrolled in cooking classes. Nothing helped. Nothing could change the gnawing fact that she was going to have to fend for herself. The blinding fact that she was alone and would continue alone, only to be buried alone, with nothing other than a previous husband’s inheritance and surviving children. This notion was her inspiration, motivation, her saving grace, her biggest fear which sparked change.

She phoned the only person who she knew would be honest with her. The one person who knew her better than she knew herself even through they had never had a “grown up” conversation she could recall. She phoned her son. Her voice had that uneasy desperation only a son could sense after 38 years of brief interaction. “What do you think I should do?” She asked. That awkward question which should only be uttered from son/daughter to father/mother and never reversed.


“Buy a one-way plane ticket to Paris. It’ll change your life.” He concluded.

“A one-way?!?” She asked frantically. Obviously a little hurt from the idea of her son wanting her thousands of miles away with no sign of return.


“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He was a man of few words, but when he spoke he knew just what to say. Just like his father. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

As the plane took off she found herself relaxed, at ease and with a sense of content she had never experienced before. This was her destiny. This was what she was born to do, but would have never realized unless she actually stepped onto the plane. She felt like a giddy 18 year old departing for their first semester at college trapped inside the weathered shell of a trampled woman. Maybe it wasn’t the idea of Paris per se. But more so, taking the first step of a very long journey which gave her hope. Hope that she had finally broken the mold of which her life of cast. The mold which so many before her had fallen victim. The mold which scared her from proving to be correct, but also from breaking at the same time. The only certainty which lay before her from this moment on was that there was a very long flight ahead of her to return on holiday.

My only attempt to write a short story...

Below is my short story. Hope you like it. If so, then Part II to follow.
So much to say, so little time. Only a week into "hard core" backpacking and Alicia and I have only almost killed each other twice. Not bad, right?
Darn you Maynone, for actually reading and commenting on my post. Now I have another silly little occupation to make a weak attempt at. Is there such a job as "professional traveler, eater, drinker"? If so, I think they should move me straight to management. Cuz I'm the boss at it, bi-otch.

Cecilia: Part I

It had been seven years since her husband had passed. “Widow” was a word she attempted desperately to escape, but instead bore the proverbial Scarlet “W” on her breast, like a war hero bears a purple heart. Her sign not of weakness, but of strength, for she had seen the worst. Sal had been sick for as long as she could remember. And she dutifully took care of him. She took care of him everyday for five years. Everyday was worst than the last, but not as bad as the next. And everyday began itself with the same routine. The medication, the feeding, the washing, the changing, the medication, the moving. But Cecilia did not complain, ask for sympathy or regret a day of the past. This was the life she had chosen, and this was the life God blessed her. She loved Sal since the day the met, and would have it no other way than to be the one caring for him. He was her other half, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Now that his suffering had past, it was time for Cecilia to begin her mourning. Each morning now was filled with the sorrow that she was alone, opposed to the hope that today was the day Sal would look up at her with that big toothy grin and proclaim, “Thanks, babe. Think I’m all better now. How’a bout we go for a walk.” Now she spent her time attending to the one person who had been neglected all those years. The person that always ate last, never had an opinion and never spent more than was necessary. Now she cared for herself. She began each day with a walk to the cemetery to say “hello” to Sal and let him know that she was okay and that she loved him. Then to the market, the library, sometimes the cinema, but mostly just home.

Her children were grown, with families of their own to attend to. Cecilia heard from them weekly. She was quite proud of them, but never felt as close to them after they moved away. One son was a respectable doctor living in Boston, with his wife and two kids. The other, a chef living in California, single, but with a thirst for life unparalleled by anyone she had met before. He would call from Eqypt, Tahiti, Alaska, always unexpectedly, but always with such a thrill in his voice. She always envied her youngest, and the naiveté that being the youngest entails. How one could be so frivolous, and yet content at the same time, was beyond her. Cecilia was the oldest of four and took it upon herself to always be the adult, always the caretaker. The responsible one that the others could go to for guidance, wisdom, refuge and solace.

Now she was in the position of the youngest son, whom she had always admired, but was too afraid to admit. Now she was in that position and finding herself scared to death. Now was her chance to go and partake in the frivolities of life. Her opportunity to treat herself for all the sacrifices she had made over the last decade. The traveling, the shopping, the indulgences that she used to cast her eyes down upon and whisper, “What a waste.” This would be her new vendetta. “Curing” that which ailed her. The years of diligence that had immuned her to not only habitual sadness, but to the ability to experience the simple pleasures found within day to day life. A hot cup of coffee with the morning paper, a buttery bag of popcorn with the latest romance, a stroll through her favorite park on a warm evening. These were all “unnecessary luxuries,” or at least she had convinced herself. She was on a mission to change that which she despised most. Her current being.

First, her outside appearance. That which was most obviously neglected over the years. The years of stress had taken it’s toll on her face. That which was once so full of life and promise of a long life, now was marred with the deep wrinkles from late nights spent crying and softly whimpering her prayers. Her face, which Sal used to say “could make a blind man see,“ was now just a face. A place where her eyes, nose and mouth lay. She blended into the crowd, and was not given a second glance. She was now just another old lady, who someone would assume to have a few kids, a few more grandkids, and maybe a husband.

With Sal’s passing she was left a considerable amount of inheritance and life insurance. He was smart, thrifty and a ruthless investor with his money over the years, and Cecilia reaped the benefits. Save what portion he bestowed upon his offspring. She enlisted her close friend, Susanne, to take part in the transformation. “Oh, how lovely.” Susanne gushed. “We’ll begin with hair and makeup and then a new wardrobe, and we mustn’t forget about a new purse…” Susanne was obviously taking more joy in this than Cecilia. Being given the opportunity to recreate your entire image, with money as no object, is something most women dream about, and few will ever see. Susanne was obviously living vicariously through Cecilia, which didn‘t bother her, just as long as she turned out the way Susanne promised. “You’ll be a new person. You won’t even remember what it felt like to be that old drab Cecilia. It’ll change your mood, and your outlook, and your perspective…” Susanne trailed off. “Trust me. A little rouge can do wonders for the soul.”