Traveling with me is not for the weak of heart.

She asked to see my camera. Simply to review the photos of the days past.
I reach in my purse and had her my wallet. The same size and color of my camera case.
She chuckles. Her arm is still outreached.
I apologize and reach back into my purse.
I pull out my passport holder.
She sighs.
I smile, reply “Just Kidding,” and again reach into my purse.
I pull out my lotion.
She exhales. Annoyed now.
I cannot resist.
I return the lotion to my purse and pull out my makeup case.
She extends her hand, unconsciously, as again it strongly resembles that of my camera case.
My laughter grows insidiously.
“Okay, okay. I swear I won’t do it again.”
I return my makeup case, and return my full hand with a book.
She places her hand in her lap. Sure that this tirade could continue for some time.
I return the book to my purse.
I thrust my entire arm into the bag, up to my shoulder.
I attempt to fill as much of the bag with my head as well.
“Where is that darn thing?” I exclaim.
I successful surface with my camera case.

No Man is an Island.

Most of her t-shirts these days were embellished with some words of encouragement. Some positive physical attribute or trendy expression that let people know what she was all about. “Hot stuff,” “Wonderful,” “Whatever,” “Where was your boyfriend last night?” She thought that maybe if she wore this attire long enough, people would either fall victim to their mystifying power and believe them, or actually consider that she believed them. Either way, she thought she might be better off.

Mismatched jewelry of every kind dangled from her extremities. Three rubber band bracelets for good luck, dangling flower earrings from her mother, a blue crystal pendant from a trip to Greece. “You wear too much. You look like a God Damn Christmas Tree!“ Barked her father. “What does he know? He doesn’t follow what’s popular.“ Nothing matched, except to her. In her opinion, conflicting jewelry would be the next big trend to hit Milan, Paris, New York. It was only a matter of time.

She followed the trends very closely. Always stuffing the latest Vogue in her oversized duffle bag that she took everywhere. Although she made a vow to her mom to “Always be herself. Never give way to peer pressure. Never judge yourself based on the likes of others,” she couldn’t help it. They were them and she was her. Rather than follow exactly what they were wearing, she opened each months magazine yearning for this months editorial to mimic her style. Eventually it would happen. “History repeats itself. Eventually this Fall Collection 2000 Wal-Mart shirt will come back in style. I just have to be patient.”

Her hair was so red it could almost be mistaken for purple. She saw it in the Spring advertisements for Prada. What once was so beautiful ,long, clean, and pure “baby blonde,” had now been reduced to a short stub of a pony tail. So many seasons and boxes of cheap hair dye later, she was now left with only the remnants of what her older sister previously would enviously run her fingers through. Peroxide in the summer, black in the winter, red in the fall, brown with highlights in the spring. So many years of attempting to fit in, creating so many split ends, resulting in so many hair cuts. Now she was envious of the virginal hair of her sister. Still blonde, and very much untouched.

She pretended to read her book, “100 Great Essays.” Very much intently eavesdropping on the phenomenon taking place right before her very eyes. “They” were in her presence. She was the quiet hunter, rigid in the bushes. They were the beautiful gazelles. Delicately nibbling on their sage brush, skittish and ready to flee at a moments notice. She examined their every movement, longing to mimic. While at the same time, eager as a hunter, she could shoot to kill. Only to put the beautiful creature she had killed on the wall. As a trophy, daily reminder, acknowledgement of her victory. Killing what she resented, only so she can stare into it’s lifeless face everyday.

With their secret vernacular and unique emphasis on particular syllables. How cacophonic! How melodic! Her ear closest “them” was closed shut, focused on her book. While her left ear remained very much open, taking copious mental notes as to the incident unfolding in front of her. If she couldn’t look like “them,” at least she could sound like “them.”

She looked up periodically from her book. Hoping to make eye contact long enough to being a conversation with the gazelle. “So, where are YOU guys from? SO, where are you guys from? So, where are you guys FROM? So, WHERE are you guys from?” Already well aware that they were American. Of the Californian descent more specifically. Where they were from didn’t as much matter as what “they” represented. “The Immaculate,” “The Nonchalant,” The Aloof.” The Secret Society of Girls, For Girls, By Girls. Whose only prerequisite for acceptance was to not give a shit, or a Dolce handbag for that matter, whether you got in or not.

“Like seriously! I was like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ Yeah, right. Like I’M going to go to the movies with YOU? And he was like, ‘Well, I just thought since I helped you pass that Econ test…’ and I’m like, ‘Oh, what so now I OWE just cause you helped me pass Econ? Yeah, right! Oh my god.” She began laughing, using her whole body to display laughter. Never moving her head, never breaking her gaze from Gazelle #2.

“How do they do that?” She pondered. “How do they take for granted being able to talk like that. That charisma! That bravado! That confidence!" She inhaled deeply, not knowing when her encounter with fate and doom may look up, realize they have been spotted, and bound across the plain. She again looked up, voracious for a sign of acknowledgment, a glance of approval. Nothing. She was nothing to “them.” They carried on with their insightful conversation, not to give her existence in the world a second thought. Nothing.

She all to suddenly became painfully aware that she was now staring. “They’re probably thinking, ‘Oh, great. Another “Wannabe” is staring at us thinking how lucky we are and how unlucky she is. Figures. Just look at her shoes. Pathetic.” She set down her book, politely excused herself over their mile long size 2 legs, and clambered to the bathroom. “Typical Molly,” she thought. “Always crying in some dirty bathroom stall. Pathetic.”

She washed her face, returned to the train cabin and picked up her book. She returned to the essay whose first line she had attempted to absorb since they left Paris, three hours ago. “Perchance for he whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know that.”

It ended with the same fervor...

It ended with the same fervor with which it began. The lights dimmed, creating the idyllic ambience. The music began. The place was negotiated upon to increase the intense feelings about to be expressed by both parties. Feelings of indescribable euphoria, bliss and arousal. Feelings teenagers can only pretend to appreciate. Feelings only those with a mature understanding of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness can endure. I slowly close my eyes and allow myself to fall victim to the excitement. It ended with the same fervor with which it began.

My body is completely immersed in the moment. My senses are inundated with a plethora of contradictory stimuli. Fast, slow. Hot, cold, Hard, soft. I cannot control my reactions, nor can I be held accountable for them. My toes begin to curl. My skin begins to pimple. I am unconsciously scratching my own arm to make sure that this is not a dream. That these sensations are very, very real. I sense the pain from my own nail and release my grip.

I’m still awake, but I have stopped breathing. I am unconsciously holding my breath. Afraid that breathing may frighten away whatever animal is the source of such pleasure and pain. When I hold my breath the pleasure elevates. I am able to concentrate fully on what is taking place. Breathing is only a distraction. Seconds begin to feel like minutes. I am unable to release my breath. It is caught in my throat. Surprisingly, fear has no place to be felt.

My tongue is heavy. My heart is pounding. My skin begins to turn blotchy red and white. A sea of pink. I’ve never had this reaction before. “Just go with it.” I resolve. It ended with the same fervor with which it began.

My eyes begin to swell with tears. Hot, salty tears stream down my cheeks and pool in the creases of my neck. “Why am I crying? What am I so emotional about?” I realize that this act of movements is a release. A total release of the perfect trinity; mind, body and soul. My daily existence in entropy has driven me to seek this temporal catharsis.

My head grows too heavy to lay in alignment with my body. I allow it to fall slightly to one side. I slowly and ever so carefully adjust my hips in an attempt to maximize my pleasure. Ever so carefully as to not disturb my partner and their tedious task at hand.

I am being played. Consumed. I am his instrument and he is the musician. I am being strummed like a guitar, tickled like a piano, plunked like a violin. He guides me with a mature, gentle hand. He is engaged by my naïve demeanor.

The emotion in the room begins to rise. Slowly, rhythmically, methodically. We are not individuals, but a unit. The only people to experience this same emotion, in the very place, at this very moment.

Louder. Harder.

I am breathing heavier now. Not afraid of scaring the beast, but afraid these sensations will never cease. “Will I ever go back to normal? Will my heart always race like this?” I can not bear it any longer. Tears streaming down my face, voice quivering, hands shaking.

Louder. Harder. Faster.

“More. More! MORE!” I manage to mouth. It slows down slightly only to change movements. Then begins again. I like this one even better than the first.

Louder. Harder. Faster.

It ended with the same fervor with which it began. “Yes. Yes! YES!” My mind screams. I bite my lip so that the words don’t leap from my chest. It ends. I am left breathless, perspiring, exhausted. The lights raise slightly. The orchestra takes their final bow, gathers their instruments and exit stage left.

Complete.

Complete from our immaculate meal.
Vino, Bread and Olive Oil, Fried Calamari, Spaghetti Bolognese, Tiramisu.
We vow to indulge ourselves with one last drink.
The square is filled to the brim with young attractive locals.
Italiano fills the air like words on a menu from the family owned pizza joint I’ve frequented since a child.
We are painfully aware of just how underdressed we are amid the sea of expensive Italian wardrobes.
Versace, Dolce and Gabana, Gucci, Roberto Cavalli.
I had only witnessed most of these names in fashion magazines.
Here, people will skip a meal, walk for a week, just to afford the latest fashions.
In my flip flops, warehouse denim and naked lips, I order a Prosecco and Cab.
A nearby man mimics my undeniable California accent.
Overcome by the sheer genius he possesses in the Classic Shakespearian Dichotomy of Tragedy and Comedy, he laughs hysterically.
“Can I get a glass of Prosecco and Cab?!?!”
He even has a difficult time finishing the sentence.
I obviously mispronounced a few items of the local color.
I am made painfully aware that I am underdressed.
We sip our large glasses and not so large servings.
I finish mine first.
It’s not a race, but I always win.
We smoke a celebratory cigarette for a day well done.
I don’t inhale.
I just keep my hands preoccupied and my mind less distracted.
Job well done, Philip Morris. Job well done.
It grows late.
The square has still not cleared, but rather grown in numbers.
We quickly realize that this is the “Before Dinner Drinking Period.”
As this same congregation inhabited this place even before we chose a restaurant.
We return our glasses to the bar and resume our exodus to our outlying hotel.
Complete.

When the mind wanders...

I cranked up my MP3 player the loudest my eardrums could withstand. “Game Day Music” I referred to it as. The kind of music that when played loud enough could make you want to punch someone in the face and spit in their eye; no remorse, no questions asked. My intentions, however, were not to act out in a fit of rage, but to completely block out my direct surroundings. A last ditch effort to completely immerse myself in the wilderness, just out of my reach.

As the train snaked it’s way through the wilderness, along rivers, through valleys, under mountains, pass villages, a sense of the fictional time travel is possible. Seeing so many variations of backdrop, in such a short period of time, gives a sense of invincibility. That I’m a bird, not flying over the present, but soaring through the centuries. Receiving glimpses of cabins of the past, villages of the present, power plants of the all to inevitable future.

Clarity as to the tirades of Thoreau and Emerson and their intentions. How I wish to be by the river bank! With no other earthly possessions then a bottle of Vino, a block of decent cheese, a good book and a blanket to my name. Only the richest of men could accomplish such a status of wealth.

Our momentum does not give way to the slightest hiccup as we ascend a hill. The houses and cars shrink to Monopoly size. I was always the iron. And I’ve never finished a game either. Once someone else landed on “Boardwalk,” and consequently purchased the property, I lost all interest. The game was already won in my opinion, and I was always known of being some-what of a sore-loser.

“Erica, I can hear you singing through my head phones.” My travel mate exclaims.
“Oh. I thought you couldn’t hear me.” I blushed.

I’ve always maintained the notion that I possessed the voice of a pre-pubescent boy. Hearing my voice replaying back to me on old movies or missed voice mails, always made me cringe. Do I really sound like that? Closest experience to an out-of-body experience. Fortunately, I’ve never had my life flash before my eyes, but coming into acceptance with one’s own impact on the world can be just as devastating. When you realize the voice that sounds more like a stranger than a familiar female, is none other than your own. “That can’t be me.” Denial.

The music barking out of my headphones consumed me to the point, just long enough, for me to let down my guard enabling a melody to escape my overly-conscious lips. I blush from being caught doing one of my most private of acts; singing. When alone my biggest indulgence is blasting the car stereo, lowering the windows to my oversized SUV and singing to the point of breathlessness. The height of my automobile fuels my secret pleasure, by providing the perfect distance from any unfortunate souls in the world below. In my car, on the streets, I am an anonymous girl with an unfortunate voice box.

I vow to keep my singing to a low “hum” and return my gaze to the tree covered mountains. It is a imaginary war between two adversaries. The leaf-less, unresponsive, dead brown pine trees versus the vigorous, exuberant, adolescent, army green pine trees. I root for the underdog. Brown and green salt and pepper the looming mountain scape.

Without warning we enter a tunnel. The world outside as we know it. Someone has detonated a bomb, abandoning all those in the world save those in the train. We are safe. Left to only be victims of our inevitable own devices. We are cockroaches untouched in a basement. Sunlight pierces the window I have been so focused upon. We have been lucky.

I impatiently begin to drum my finger on the arm rest. They say you can burn a few hundred more calories a day by continuously tapping you fingers or shaking your foot. I always thought that incessantly doing anything was a nervous incognizant behavior individuals struggled to discontinue. While the whole time they were just losing weight.

I think I would have made an excellent drummer. My understanding of rhythm is quite good in my opinion and my musical timing is impeccable. Only downside is that drummers are always put in the back, only to be overlooked, taken advantage of and unsurprisingly pitied. They never stay long in any band because someone else always get the fame, money and bleeding recognition.

I catch myself singing. I close my mouth and catch the last word mid-syllable. It hangs in the air and falls into my lap, like a balloon, finally depleted of its last molecule of helium. My favorite song by the band begins to harmonize. I allow the lead singer the privilege of crooning me sans my accompaniment on back up vocals. Rather I show my silent appreciation through keeping the beat in my head.

Empty ski lifts climb a mountain. In perfect unison, they follow a path cleared through the pines, like ants carrying eggs up an ant hill. I swear that if I were to look at them long enough one will fall out of route of his committed destination. He will be the way to rebel, stepping out of time, disobeying orders. Only to be summoned back by another into perfect unison.
My favorite song ends and I press a button so that it will play again. Only the lead singer is not as lucky to have me sit quietly as a complacent observer. I chime in the chorus, stifled as to not let my friend onto the fact that I thoroughly enjoy this song.

I miss my place in the song from my wandering mind and quickly begin it again at the beginning. A wandering mind is a common symptom of mine, with the only prescription being that of many replayed songs and re-read pages.

A stout man comes in our cabin asking for our tickets. He reminds me of a young Santa Claus. I again start my favorite song from the beginning.

Chameleon

Linguistics bombard the restuarant and collide like atoms.
French, Austrian, German, Italian, Spanish, English.
A cultural melting pot amongst the pots of Pesce di Zuppa.
I remain quietly scrolling the pages of my book.
It is only in the obvious and overused English that I can communicate.
How is wich I were the chameleon rather than the perpetrator.
I answer questions to which is answer is "yes" with a smile, and "no" with a nod.
I speak other answers quietly as to not draw attention that I am a product of the universal Red, White and Blue.
"The Priviledged."
"The Best."
How I wish I were a chameleon.

Smell of Soil

Sitting at a Sicilian cafe.
Sipping Cappuchinos.
Chewing and digesting the works of Francis Bacon.
Sitting amongst the planters, freshly filled with soil and scrubs.
Partioning me from the normalities of the city.
A mother spanks her child, a teenager revs his motorcycle, a new couple find a comfortable embrace.
Sitting amongst strangers who have family.
I remember the Sundays.
The trunk brimming with fresh manure and plastic trays of flowers.
My second cappuchino appears.
A flower of cinnamon lays upon the foam.
I am amongst the flowers.

I guess I have some explaining to do...

So I know my post are extremely, umm... err.... random in length and distribution. But you really dont understand. We are so busy sightseeing and spending entire days traveling from one destination to another, that finding time to blog just isnt possible. Trust me people if I had an internet connection in every room I was in, I would be on much more. But I am very glad I dont. Because they is soo much time in my life I can blog. But really, how often I am going to be visiting Rome, or Sicily, or anywhere over here. Everywhere in Europa, I have come to realize, is amazing in its own unique and wonderful way.

So I apologize. I wish there was more of me to go around. But there isnt. And I have ceased to write about each place and experience because 1. There is not enough time in the day and 2. I had a feeling I was giving away all of Alicia and mine little secrets we were acquiring and 3. No one would be interested in anything I have to say upon arrival because they would have read it all.

With that,
Ciao Bella.