Cookies for Hookers

We were fresh into the new year of 2008, and I was feeling guilty for putting off something I'd meant to do before Christmas.  I'd bought a couple rolls of cookies dough, some plastic cups, and gathered together a mixture of holiday candy we'd accumulated since October, and the plan was to fill the cups with the goodies and hand them out at random.  Call it random acts of kindness, spreading a little holiday cheer, or just being nice - I wanted to give people who might usually be overlooked a reason to smile.  Sugar tends to do that.  And here I'd let Christmas some and go without so much as baking a single cookies.

As it was January already, I decided to call it a New Year's Surprise and do it anyway.  I grabbed a Sharpie and wrote "Happy New Year!" in English on one side, and in Italian on the other of the red Solo cups, filled them with a stack of chocolate chip and holiday themed sugar cookies, topped that with candy, then sealed them in plastic wrap and a little ribbon.  They went into my backseat for the next few days for easy pass-outability.

Two went to gate guards who were always friendly to me, even in the rain.  I handed another to the man who always pumped my gas at the Esso between home and work.  I took one to a friend at work one afternoon to brighten her day.  As I kept them in my car, I sort of ran short of natural opportunities to grab a cup of cheer from the backseat and hand it to someone.  If I was thinking about it, I'd take one in with me to a store and give the cashier a treat, but as it was later that week, I still had three left behind my seat, unsure of where they should go.

Then one night I was on my way home from a girls' night.  Of course...I'd nearly forgotten them, the hardest working ladies around, the girls who lined the SS1 day and night, rain or shine.  Surely they could appreciate a small gesture of sugar-infused kindness, and I would imagine they rarely, if ever, received gifts without strings.

I was almost home, a little less than ten minutes out, and it was time to decide which ladies of the night I'd be visiting.  The SS1 is a stretch of superstrada, a non-toll highway that runs through towns, as opposed to over or around them, and this one runs from around La Spezia just north of Tuscany to Rome.  The SS1 seems to be spotted with working girls nearly all the way.  Different stretches boast different kinds of girls, and the one close to us was mostly worked by male ladies, that is, men in various stages of transformation.  Some had clearly had surgery; others, not.  Seriously, some of these guys, even up close, had nicer legs than me, and much perkier breasts.  It was something to get used to, certainly, but over time the ladies of the SS1 became another part of our Italian experience, and it was entertaining to drive visitors past, and THEN tell them every person they'd just seen was a man.  So who would I dare pull up and talk to tonight?  I opted to stop near a pizzeria in front of which there were always a few girls waiting around for a car to roll to a stop.  I think they were surprised when the window rolled down and it was me.

There were two of them, and only one stepped forward at first.  She said hello, as did I, then I extended a red cup to her and smiled.  "Buon Anno Nuovo," I said cheerily.  Happy New Year.  She looked at me with an expression of cautious amusement, and she smiled back, looking over her shoulder to her colleague and then taking the cup from my hand.  When she asked me what it was, I simply explained that it was just a cup of sweets to wish her a happy new year, and that was all.  She passed this information back to the other, so she also then stepped up to peer into the cup.  They were clearly unsure of me, but polite, nonetheless.  I handed another cup to the second girl, said Happy New Year again, then said goodnight.  When they realized I really was just wishing them well and handing over some cookies, they visibly relaxed, opened their gifts and wished me well, too.  We all smiled, said goodnight, and I drove away, my new friends waving as I did.

With one cup left, I pulled over just past the bridge that crossed the railroad tracks close to another pair of ladies, and in similar fashion, offered them sweets and a smile.  They were even less trusting, but politely took the cup and opened the plastic to check it out.

The next afternoon when I drove past these very same spots, the girls were gone but left behind were a couple of empty, red Solo cups, rolling around on the side of the road.  I hoped they had enjoyed the treats, and didn't just toss them in case I was some crazy out to poison the local sex workers.  Either way, I'd made a few simple connections that further strengthened my belief that we're all just people who make decisions.  Sometimes those decisions are hard to understand, but most of the time, most people are just trying to do their best to get by and survive.  I was happy that I'd managed to at least make them smile, maybe surprise them a little, and hopefully give them a little sugar rush to start the new year.

Polaroids

Remember those?

I wrote this during my second year in college.  I still have the album, and though some things have changed since the time I wrote this, I decided not to edit for now-accuracy.  It's part of my personal history book, the naiveté and all. 

I should update it. 

I have this little notebook that I’ve turned into a photo album.  It’s more like a list in pictures.  The jacket is made of banana leaves and the pages are made of pressed vegetation and they’re the color of ochre.  A man who lives in Indonesia puts these little books together and sells them to small stores like the one I bought this from.  I like to think about the effort the maker of these little books puts into them; I like to think he puts something personal into them to make them his before he adopts them out like babies.  You can tell it’s hand-made from all the little imperfections.  That’s why I like it.  That’s why I like a lot of things.  But they’re just pages.  It’s just a book.

The first picture.

I can’t be more than two years old; my brother must be eleven.  I remember the day we went to this zoo and rode around in a small dirt arena atop a big, smelly elephant.  Two blonde kids smiling and holding their breath.  My brother’s always been my personal hero, but big brothers often are to little sisters, or if they’re not, I think they should be.  This is a picture of a little girl and her protective brother with his arms naturally holding her, making sure she doesn’t lose her balance on the shifting mass of elephant.  There’s a safety bar on either side to hold onto, but that’s what big brothers are for.  Holding onto little sisters so they don’t laugh too hard and fall.

Next page.

We’ve been best friends since the sixth grade, Lizz and I.  The Cabin has a name like any person; it’s a life in itself.  Here we are, laughing and giving each other bunny ears for the picture upstairs in the A-framed loft.  It was my twelfth birthday and I was allowed to bring a couple friends to the family’s cabin in the Ocala National Forest.  First year of middle school.  Middle school sucked.  But Lizz and I got through it leaning on each other, and I guess we still do it now, even though we’re miles apart.  I wanted this picture to go in the front of my little catalog of good memories.

A few pages in.

I spaced out all the pictures I have so far so that there’s no order.  Happiness is sporadic and random.  This one is one of my favorites.  My Pawpaw loved to fish.  And that’s the caption I wrote beside this picture.  It’s a little out of focus.  I don’t know who took it out on the little fishing boat he had.  He smiled like I do; no teeth, closed and shy.  We were close.  I miss him.

With one page between.

Close after Pawpaw are Chris and I.  He was one of my closest friends in high school.  This is us in Zaragoza, a little city in the central part of Spain.  My hair was short and we just look like two friends having fun in another country.  My ankles are tiny.  I only like parts of myself in pictures because usually by the time I look again, I’ve changed and it gives me another reason to criticize myself.  Chris is probably one of the most patient friends I’ve ever had.  He didn’t mind my irrational obsessions with insignificant things like ankles.  He just loved me.  That’s why he’s in my book.

Next one.

These are my old dogs who went to live with my sister after she got married and this is my first white Christmas, huddled down hugging my dogs in the snow.  I was seventeen and about to start making some bad decisions soon.  But I look so happy and innocent here.  Naïve.  I miss it in a way. 

Middle of the stack.

I might be a year old here, with drool on my lip as I bite it, sitting between my big brother and sister.  I like to remember being young enough not to worry about all the things there are to worry about now.  Like my nephew Joshua’s third birthday that I’ll miss this year because I’m away at school; like my niece Megan’s first day of kindergarten.  At first glance, I’d think I’m in this picture with Megan, she looks so much like her mother, my sister.  I miss being the baby.  Those were simpler times.  They always are.  Before we grow up.

Logically following.

Here they are, the Iron Will and the Little Man, as I’ve titled them.  Megan and Joshua, brother and sister, peace-maker and boss – reverse respectively.  She’s been posing for the camera since I think she could open her eyes enough to know someone was giving her attention.  Pursed lips and messy hair, she’s a little doll.  And him, he’s my boy.  I can’t describe the cuteness to the degree this picture captures.  So I won’t try.

A couple more later.

And here is my first baby, Heidi.  When the dogs went to live with my sister my freshman year of high school I couldn’t live without a dog.  A dog, no kids for me this early.  She was my baby.  She still is my baby six years later.  When I first got her she could curl up in my cupped hands.  She’s a little bigger and a lot brattier now.  I took her with me to school.  She’s asleep on my pillows right now.

Nearing the back.

Here he is, the Little Man, a page to himself.  He is my favorite boy.  He has to be only six months old here, spitting like babies do with his little baby lips pursed and his eyes closed, his baby fingers curled up in concentration.  Little Joshua Timothy.  So cute. 

The last page.

There are two overlapping here, describing the same thing, only different parts.  The Howard Franklin Bridge crosses Tampa Bay to St. Petersburg, home since I was four.  Sixty-second avenue north stretches all along Mangrove Golf Course and past the water treatment plant.  It smells like not so lovely things late at night and sometimes not even late at night driving by.  Sixty-second takes you to a street and that street shortly takes you to a neighborhood, a closed subdivision with a lake in the center called Harbor Isle.  These two roads, one picture black and white and one picture color, overlapping one another describe going home, something no matter where I am in life, I can always do.  I can always go home.

These are all I have so far in this informal collection of smiles.  These are the things that fill my heart and these are the things that remind me that a smile is your heart sighing.  Because there’s just so much beauty in every one of our messed up, pathetic, dysfunctional lives.  But they’re just memories, right?  They’re only polaroids.   

Family and Phone Calls

I talked to my parents today for 2 hours on the phone.

I am so super lucky, because while I live on a different continent than my family, traveling and writing and all around having a fantastic time, I've got parents who are happy about it.  They don't guilt me for being so far from home, and they don't constantly ask when we're moving back home.  (And Mom works very hard not to ask when we're finally going to have a baby, aside from the occasional remark thrown in just in case we forget.  Thanks, Mom.)  I miss them terribly, and I struggle with the holidays and birthdays and general family get-togethers I miss living so far from them, but I'm also eternally grateful for this crazy opportunity to explore more of the world.  They understand that; my brother and sister, too.

Sure, we talk about how long Chris and I think we'll be living where we are now, and about when we might move closer to home.  We talk about who just won their soccer game and who lost a tooth (nieces and nephews, not my parents), and we compare the weather between here and there.  But we also talk about up-coming trips and what we've all got going on, like we live down the street.  I love unlimited calls to the States, and I am really grateful for my supportive family.  Honestly, I don't know if I'll be so cool with my future child if I go through all the effort, stretch marks and labor pain to bring them into the world, just to have them grow up and move halfway around the world from me.  How dare they have their own life!

If I could write something so phenomenal it made me instantly rich, I'd visit home more often just to hang out, and I'd fly them all out to see me all the time.  Really, I would.  It would just be nice to see them all often enough to have the chance to become sick of them.  I know that sounds odd, but truly, I look forward to the day that stopping by my brother's house or picking up my niece Megan for a movie or something is so commonplace, it's boring and a nonevent.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the big deal feeling I get when we visit home, because it doesn't happen all too often, but normalcy that includes these great people I'm related to would be...nice.

Until then, we have the phone.  Something Chris doesn't understand, and I know he's not alone in this, is my ability to talk at length with any of my immediate family members.  Seriously, I just talked to my parents a week or so ago, but today was another easy two hours.  When Chris used to ask me what on Earth we talk about for that long, it's hard to answer him without outright listing it all out.  Depending on which family member I've got on the opposite end of the line, topics covered may include the community events my parents just helped organize and run in the small town they're now a part of in their retirement; what Rosie's got growing in the garden this year; Zachary's ant farm; Hannah's baseball or soccer game; the fact that Megan is a teenager; how Josh's guitar playing is coming along; some crazy case Tracy just had at the hospital, like the wine bottle that was stuck ... in a tight spot; the awesome new smoothies Gary has been making and how much I love my new juicer; the big changes coming to fruition soon and all the meetings Gary and Krista have been having while trying to get it all together; the trip Chris and I just took, and the ones we're planning next; how much snow everyone not living in Florida got this winter; how all the dogs are doing; who was sick recently and how long it lasted; my dad's weather station and today's wind speed; the 30 books my mom read last week, and which she liked best, and so on, and so forth.  We talk about every little thing, and while Chris finds it challenging to stretch a phone conversation beyond the fifteen minute mark, I'm getting caught up on all the tiny details of the lives I'm not physically a part of right now.  Keiths can talk, and I really love it.

So thank you, my family, for the support you give me from across an ocean.  It means more to me than you all know, and my life would certainly not be as rich without it.  Missing you guys reminds me that I'm extremely lucky to be in a place that allows me to miss you, and that I've got you to miss at all.  Love you.

The Magic I Miss

With Chris working crazy long hours, to include this past weekend, I managed to get quite a lot done around the house.  Most of it, I'll admit, happened at the dining table at or around my laptop, but done is done.  Without my movie buddy, I watched no movies; without my adventure partner, I didn't leave the house.  It was raining, anyhow.  But without another person to talk to and play with, I turned to all the responsibilities I so very easily forget during the week when there's not much time, and during the weekends when there's fun to be had.  This weekend was very productive, indeed.

But this morning, though I was in a great mood, feeling rested despite the 4:45 wake-up, it hit me that I missed my typical weekend-ender.  Sundays, for us, are generally very lazy and very precious.  I missed that.  And though I'm sure Chris missed it much more, being at work till 8pm, I felt obligated to rent a movie to watch immediately upon arriving home this afternoon.  I felt I needed to catch up a little on lazing about and being entertained by a screen and a story.

I watched Phoebe in Wonderland.  If you like imagination and the sometimes off workings of the mind, you might enjoy this film.  Although the story isn't all fantasy and light-hearted imagination, that's what I'm thinking about after watching it.  Imagination, something I used to have, and blame adulthood for losing.

When do we start to let go of the fantastical for the sake of the mature?  When does it become okay to say goodbye to the sparkle that makes cardboard boxes fun?  Why is it that we must give up healthy imaginations in order to function as adults?  I realize that there are some adults who are able to hang onto theirs, and I envy them, because I swore I'd never lose mine.  I actually swore to myself, as a child, never to allow myself to grow out of my wonderful imagination and the magic held therein.  I would never grow up all the way.  The latter part of that promise, I feel I've managed to hold onto, and I'll be forever proud of that.  But I no longer possess the ability to lose myself in a fantasy, to disappear into a fanciful dreamworld of my own making.  I write stories, sure, but the things I write rarely reflect the whimsy of the world in which I often lived as a child.  The magic is tarnished.  

When I was a child, I honestly believed all animals could tell that I was a friend; we communicated without words.  If I were to get lost in the forest, I would surely be rescued by some wild breed of creature, be it wolf, coyote, or bobcat.  It didn't matter that there are no wolves running free in the woodsy marshes of Florida.  It was possible to me.

There was also a short span of time when I believed I may be a new breed of vampire, as a couple of my front teeth were especially pointy.  I remember hiding out in the bathroom of the house of one of my mom's church friends.  There was a beach barbecue going on outside, but I was sure if I stared into the darkened mirror and said the words out loud, someone would appear and tell me the truth of who I was.

When I was even younger than that, I truly believed that I was an angel, accidentally sent to Earth.  Maybe that could explain why I felt so out of place, and why I seemed to hurt so much deeper than other people.  Maybe I was built that way to help others.

That's just the outer fringes of where my mind took me, and I'd like to think I'm not a total freak, in that aspect.  I had a vivid and active imagination, following the secret trails of fireflies on summer nights at my grandparents' house, and arranging my nook in the oak tree in our front yard for an extended stay.  I used to close my eyes at night, excited to get lost in my own head as I drifted to sleep.  I miss that.

Some people say that children are more susceptible to the things we can't understand as rationally thinking adults.  People who believe in ghosts say young children can see them; people who believe in angels say the same.  When my oldest niece, Megan, was a baby, we watched her and wondered what had her so entertained, as her eyes seemed to be tracking a very amusing scene across the ceiling.  Her belly laugh was amazing and we couldn't see why.  So many fairy tales preach that you have to believe to experience the magic; maybe there's something to that.  Surely, everyone knows the placebo effect, that if a patient believes they're being treated, their condition very often improves.  And when I took a leisure course in college called ESP Awareness, our instructor was very clear about our being open to the possibility of there being parts of our brains that could allow us to tap into things thought supernatural.  On the contrary, her belief was that psychic ability is quite natural, we just have to know how to tap into it.  And we have to believe we can.

So if we believe there is magic in the world, is it possible to experience it in adulthood?  Can we, as job-working, bill-paying grown-ups take a step back toward our more innocent days and look a little closer for the cracks in reality?  Meaning, is it possible to see a little magic shine through all that is obligatory and reasonable?  I really hope so, because life without imagination, life without magic just seems a little sad.

It kind of makes me look forward to seeing the world through fresh eyes, with a renewed sense of awe.  In good time.

A Very Productive Day

Opting not to meet up with dirndl and lederhosen-clad friends downtown today for the sake of getting things done, I've actually tackled quite a bit.  I love being productive, and quite honestly, I don't often feel like I do these days.  Such a bummer.

With the reading coming up, I've narrowed it down to five old pieces I've never really shared.  As I read each one aloud, it's difficult to say which would do best.  I'm also noticing a dark pattern, not that this should totally surprise me, as my younger years were a bit darker for me.  Let's say I wore a very depressing shade of blue glasses.  They're not all totally twisted, or anything, they just all seem to have a dark edge to them.  Call it murky accents.  Regardless, going through files and files and trying to decipher which of one's own work is worth sharing isn't an easy (or quick) task; and this after I decided I couldn't commit to writing something all new (and edit it sufficiently) by next week.  Which isn't to say I won't try, if inspiration or a surge of creativity strike.

Medical bills.  Fun, fun, medical bills.  Living abroad with Stateside insurance means after you see the doctor and pay the doctor, you must file an international claim form with above mentioned insurance company to receive reimbursement.  This means fronting the entire amount of the bill, which is fine when it's a routine check-up.  Not so much when it's an ER visit that turns into a few days in the hospital.

Back story:  It was the day before Halloween this last year when I experienced a very sudden and acute pain on the right side of my throat.  I could see it was inflamed, and could even see evidence of infection, so proceeded to swish with warm, salt water, like my mom taught me.  By Halloween morning, 6am, having not slept all night due to the pain, I called a nurse hotline.  I'd looked up my symptoms and was sure it was a nasty case of tonsillitis, but this pain was unbearable.  The nurse advised me to visit the Emergency Room.  A half hour later Chris and I were at the ER, and ten minutes after that, being seen by the doctor.  In Germany, it seems there are even specialized ERs, so after a quick examination, we were sent downtown to the Ear, Nose and Throat ER.  After doing my best to follow the directions of a large, angry looking nurse who insisted she knew no English, they took me to a room, where a nurse technician proceeded to explain how to use the phone and TV remote.  Hurray for language barriers, I was being admitted!  The picture above is the view from my room - not bad!  Long story short, it wasn't a terrible experience, but the 4 bills we got to cover all this mess were a little off-putting.

In this picture, you'll see the extravagant spread I enjoyed for dinner, a slice of cheese and - count 'em - two plum tomatoes!



So today I am finally getting the bills, the translations, and the claim forms filled out and together to mail off.    

Next in line, applying for teaching jobs.  I'd emailed a local international school, but heard back that they don't keep applications in file.  I can only apply when there is an actual position open, so I'll be keeping close tabs on their website.  Nothing right now.

The other school where I'd love to teach is the school at which I am currently working.  The chances are slim, as the applicant pool is especially rich in this area of qualified and experienced educators, but it doesn't hurt to try.  Maybe the fact that I'm already familiar with the school and have made a decent impression thus far will help my chances?  I love it when miracles happen, is the reply I got from the school secretary, the very backbone of the place.  Oh well, try anyway, I will.  The online application is rather involved, so I've been completing it by section and checking them off the list.  Right now I'm to the section that requires professional evaluations and I've got to do some information gathering before I can complete it.

And let us not forget my disaster house.  I cannot be at peace in my own home when it's a mess, and Chris and I aren't so good at maintenance.  Company coming over?  Sure!  We'll jump in and clean the heck out of the place and it'll look fabulous, and I love it.  But give it a week or two, and though we do try, it inevitably falls back to shambles.  Maybe I need something to stress over to function, but I can't seem to KEEP the place kept up.  Piles sneak up on the dining table and quietly grow; dust and dog hair find each other to form ridiculous tufts that are kicked out of the way instead of swept up; shoes multiply by the front door, and clean clothes (CLEAN) set up camp on the recliner because must I wash, fold AND put them away?  I'm ridiculous, I know, but I've never claimed to be a skilled housekeeper, and will openly admit that I hate to clean.  If I believe hard enough in the Tidy Fairy, will she appear and make it all go away?  I certainly wouldn't want a real house cleaner to see this place.

So when I'm done with the paperwork, physical and online, when I'm satisfied as to how the application is coming along, when I'm closer to figuring out what piece of my soul to bare, and the blog is done for today, the house will get a little attention.  I rocked out the kitchen yesterday, and by rocked out, I mean I transformed it back into a space in which I enjoy cooking, with clear and shiny counter tops and a well-used dishwasher.  Now it's the dining room table's turn, then maybe I'll think about lugging all those clean and folded clothes upstairs to file away in their rightful drawers and wardrobes.

Was this incredibly boring?  I'm sorry if it was, but I'm an organizer and a list-maker and talking about the stuff I can cross off the list makes me happy.  That's what today is, a very productive day.  My favorite kind.

Blog: Check

The Next Reading

An annual event called American Days in Stuttgart is nearly here, and the writing group I'm a part of is participating again this year.  Last year, my introduction to this fantastic group of writers was their last night of the public readings they did as a part of American Days.  Their stories were moving, hilarious, and brave, and I was instantly in awe of their courage to share, as well as their respective styles and talent.  Now it's my turn to jump in and try not to wet my pants in front of an audience.

The very first time I read something I'd written in front of actual people was this past December.  The Writer's Group has a relationship with Starbucks, and has staged readings at a couple downtown locations before.  The writers appreciate the opportunity to share their work, and Starbucks enjoys the extra business.  So it was near Christmastime when the group held a reading at the coffee house, and I helped wrap up the evening with a short story.  I've always been terrified of speaking in front of people, from elementary schoolbook reports to saying thank you and goodbye to the people of Chris' last office at the Farewell.  Writing, any artistic medium really, is deeply personal by nature and sharing it can be scary for anyone, I think.  So standing up in front of real life people and actually sharing a piece of my own writing should have had me going out of my mind.  But it didn't; it was weird.  I was excited.  I practiced with Chris and I edited, and I was slightly thrilled to be doing it.  When the night came, I got up, read my piece (without incident or stutter), and took my seat.  I didn't start trembling until after I finished, but it was amazing.  I hadn't puked or anything, the nerves had backed down.

American Days will bring about my second time out to read publicly, and I think I may be more nervous this time than the last.  I have no idea what to read.  I feel like there's only so much creative energy in my body at any given time, and once I've exhausted it, it takes a little time to build back up again.  Usually by the next day.  Since I've taken on this blog, most of my creative energy has gone into trying to write something worth reading every day, and I haven't been able to sit down to work on anything fictional.  It's time to start prioritizing creative projects, as I'm also itching to start some photography projects, as well.  There just isn't enough time in the day.  I can't wait till summer break, the biggest joy of working at an elementary school.  And though we'll be fairly busy here and there this summer with music festivals, trips, and a guest, I'm very much looking forward to a little bit of time where I can focus all (well, most) of my attention on creative ventures.

So what to write, what to write...what would people attending events that celebrate the relationship between Germans and Americans want to hear about at a coffee house reading?  I've got one week till our next Writer's Group meeting, where I'll be able to share what I plan to read to get feedback.  Now I just need a decent idea...

Moments

* It should be noted that when I sat down to write for today it was actually April 30th, the clock just rolled past midnight before I could finish.  I didn't skip!*

When I feel totally stuck at my laptop, I turn to my pictures.  And it seems that now that we're no longer living there, I find myself often thinking about Italy.  It's not so much the country, but our experiences there.  Our Italy.  These are some of the best parts of our life there, my favorite moments.

Gondoliers

Venice

Walking around a sinking city in the summertime and turning toward the sound of whistling.  Seeing these two gondoliers, strolling side-by-side down a narrow street.  Perhaps their shifts are over.  Maybe it's lunch.

The Coliseum

Rome

The Coliseum at night, from a symposium of some sort up the road.  We only walked up the concrete steps for the view.

The Tower from a Rooftop

Pisa

Climbing up to the roof of a major hotel near the Leaning Tower for a different view of the Plaza of Miracles during the high school's Prom.

Carnevale in Viareggio

Crazy parades and their wild floats that include up-the-dress access and giant cherubs that pee on the crowd.

Sunflowers. Fields and fields.

The fashion.

Creepy homemade scarecrows 

Seeing Andrea Boccelli in concert in his home town.

Lo Squalo's fabulous tiramisu.  The best tiramisu.  Ever.   

Vendors. 

But more specifically, the cool vendors who actually talked to me, laughed with me, and shared a little bit about their stories.  His vendor name was Paul, and I met him at the Saturday Pisa market.  One guy I wish I'd gotten a photo of, Guy.  I knew him from Tirrenia's summer vendor spread, and he sold "African" trinkets, baskets, and the like.  He's from Senegal and travels a circuit around Europe every year, before returning home before the next season.  He called me his white sister.

The boats and the Mediterranean Sea and the air.

Happiness.  Joy.  Love.

While visiting Cinque Terre, we walked into a crowd that had gathered beneath this balcony.  The new bride and groom threw candy to the people below, basket after basket, and the people cheered, grabbed for the sweets, and shouted well-wishes to the happy couple.

These things are what I miss and what I hold dear about living in that place.  I hope I'll always be able to return.