They can be raised no more, no less. Just over halfway is where it's at for those taupe blinds.
Just like last time, poor Ellie was banished to the backpack closet. Backpacks are closeted creatures at Francesco's. They are rarely permitted to pop their bulky selves out into living spaces, and if caught by Francesco to be lingering too long, are greeted with a "What are all the backpacks doing? I see so many backpacks! One, two, three..."
There are many backpacks at Francesco's because the generous, affable Italian hosts legions of couchsurfers. During my first night, there was a Polish couple in the guest room and a Danish American chap beside me on the living room floor. The Polish left before I could meet them, and were immediately replaced by a young Estonian couple.
"Aimee, can you help?" Francesco enlisted my aid in stripping the bed. "We must prepare for the next shift."
A bowl of bananas and oranges rests on the table in front of me. I do a double-take to make sure they're real.
They're so big and perfect and plasticky. And don't smell like fruit in Thailand. It's the difference between fresh-baked, homemade bread and wonderbread from City Market.
There are two spotless, marble counters to my left. One counter with a stove top and another counter with a toaster, the open kettle, a sink with drinking water and a robust coffee machine.
How I've missed you, drinking water... drinking water and just... a kitchen. In general. I've missed being in a home with a kitchen. This is the first real kitchen I've experienced since my last night with Misho in Sofia. During the past three months, I've only had Ganesh's kitchen with its two burners, a propane tank, a wok-cauldron and a brooding teenage boy. Oh, and Santa's kitchen with its firepit in the corner and an elderly woman with no teeth who slaps you on the face if you wear shoes.
"I'm so happy!" I crowed as I guzzled a glass of clear, decidedly not death water straight from the tap.
My trip to London was excruciatingly long. However, as I lackadaisically moseyed over to each transfer point between three and nine hours early, there was zero stress in the three day journey.
This is how I do.
I even caught myself tap dancing though Heathrow and KL airport. And my fellow passengers sent me almost as many perplexed sideways glances as they toss in Boy's direction when he blissfully dribbles his beloved football through terminals.
I tapped to Sufjan Stevens through Bangkok's train station . I tapped to Jack Johnson through Bangkok's airport, where the fellow at passport control looked at me, looked at my passport, looked at me again and then commented incredulously, "But... you look eighteen!"
I tapped my way through Kuala Lumpur's international terminal to a bench without armrests. And then I waited. For ten hours. As hobos like me do who decide that saving a few bucks is more important than, you know, sleep.
Then the ten hours of sitting/sprawling/drooling on an extraordinarily productive airport bench transformed me into an unhinged creature from the impending apocalypse. And I did not tap. I just stared morosely at my phone as the hours languidly passed by. When my phone finally informed me that I'd survived until five am, I abandoned my bench to wander the airport until I collided with a smoothie shop. Where I bought a smoothie in an attempt to be more human, less apocalyptic creature.
My flight from KL to London boarded at nine am and departed at about ten. A technologically savvy but armrest etiquette devoid five year old sat in the seat next to me. And often meandered over into my seat during the course of the fourteen hour flight. I found myself taking on the role of headrest for a gently snoring munchkin more often than not.
And I can't yell at a five year old. Blurgh.
I arrived in London at around four thirty pm and was chuffed to discover that as a Canadian citizen, I was invited into the fastlane.
Must be because I'm a subject of the Queen of England. Knew that would pay off one day.
I didn't get asked any questions about where I was going to stay, how long I planned to stay there or what brought me to London that miserable afternoon.
"And have you been to England before?" the officer asked as he stamped my passport.
"Yes, last July."
"Last July?" the officer flipped through the empty pages of my Canadian passport. "Why isn't it marked here?"
"Because I used my American passport at the time. I have dual citizenship. I... uh.... prefer to use the Canadian one these days."
"Oh, right!" the officer glanced at my passport. "Says here you were born in California. Well, you don't sound American, do you?" he mused at my jumbled accent while apocalyptic passengers teemed behind me. "You sound... Quebecois."
"Thank-you," I retrieved my stamped passport and smiled, deciding it would be best to not tell the insightful chap that I've never, en fait, been to Quebec.
While I waited for Ellie at the belt, I opened my laptop, connected to Heathrow's free wifi and messaged Francesco. Who had already sent me several frantic messages on Skype asking whether or not I'd landed.
I grinned in wry amusement.
This guy. Gosh. It makes sense that some people get frustrated by how overbearing he can be. But... but I just love feeling cared about. Maybe not even cared about. Just... it makes me happy that someone notices my absence. Like when Jerry the British Canadian missed me when I was late for fruit salad.
So I messaged Francesco that I'd safely arrived in London and would be making my way to his home near Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. And at around seven o'clock, after an hour on the tube and half an hour of walking, I finally arrived at Francesco's front door.
"Are you kissable?" the Italian eyed me warily. I had informed my host of my intimidating itinerary, so he was rightly worried about hippie stank.
"Yes," I lied. "I think so."
Wow... this is the first time I've been greeted with a kiss on each cheek instead of a hands in prayer/bow in three months. I'd almost forgotten that people kiss here.
Francesco quickly ushered me to the shower and reiterated a few rules about the workings thereof.
And I took my first unsurprising hot shower in three months.
I was able to experience hot showers occasionally in Asia, but each moment of warmth felt like a bloody miracle. Now warm showers won't feel as magical as the parting of the Red Sea. They'll feel like a Tuesday.
Which is a good thing, because it's freakishly cold outside. My poor body is in shock.
Francesco and I Skyped his cousin in Rome and wished her happy birthday. She remembered me from when I'd visited Francesco three years before, because I put her upside down and spun her around a bit. And for some reason or other, people have a tendency to remember events like that.
"Come visit me in Rome!" she invited me to her city.
"Yes, you should visit her," Francesco urged. "She has a beautiful, big apartment in the center of Rome."
"I probably could visit in September," I mused, feeling vaguely amused and grateful for the random invitation. And a little bit in love with my life, wherein random invitations to Rome occur. "Yeah, I could swing by the beginning of September and spend a few days with her before I head north to the wine festival in Asti."
Then I donned two sweaters and hustled down the stairs and up the street to find Maud, my hot Dutch friend who was staying at a hostel two minutes away from Francesco's.
How fabulous is it that in a city as MASSIVE as London, we end up two minutes away from each other?
"MAUD!" I flung myself at my hot Dutch friend.
She smiled broadly.
"Hey man," she returned my suffocating hug.
We shared a bottle of wine and caught up on some of the happenings during the last three years of our lives.
This person is so important to me... and I haven't seen her in three years. That feels absurd. But it's an absurdity that goes hand in hand with traveling the world. And if I didn't travel the world, I would never have met my hot Dutch friend in the first place.
Eventually, wine plus three days of travel plus jet lag finally overwhelmed my excitement at seeing Maud again after three years.
"I... can't keep my eyes open..." I drooped pathetically onto the hostel table. "Think I should go to bed. I'm sorry."
Girl be knackered.
"What are your plans today?" Francesco asked the next morning as he brought me a steaming cup of much needed coffee.
"Not much. Just hanging out with my friend," I mumbled through my epic jetlag.
"We meet for brunch at ten fifteen? You can invite your friend."
"That. Sounds great. Let's do it."
"But where is Bjorn?" Francesco fretted over the Dane's absence.
"He went running this morning at.. uh... six?"
"It is eight thirty now. He can't still be running. Maybe the squirrels attacked him."
"Could be."
"Maybe he lost his keys and is too embarrassed to come home. Oh, if he lost his keys, I will give him a very hard time. AH! Why doesn't he have a phone? Why does no one have phones? Ah...young people," the aging Italian grumbled.
The Danish chap eventually returned fro him run, and we all hopped into one of London's black cabs and sped over to an Italian restaurant. Where Francesco had arranged to meet with seven other Italians for the meal.
"Don't sit together," Francesco instructed us, a delighted twinkle in his eyes. "Spread out."
This person just likes bringing people together. Orchestrating conversation over food.
I want to be like Francesco one day.
Maud and I spent the rest of our day together ambling through the quiet parts of London and drinking wine in parks.
I also experienced a moment of euphoria when I was reunited with creamy cheese.
At one point, I found myself in London's China town. And felt quite discombobulated to see the same red lanterns, some similar architecture, not similar weather and not similar prices.
Pad Thai for eight pounds? PSH. In Thailand, that would be thirty-five baht. Psh.
...
Adjusting to Europe will be painful.
...
I walked Maud to the tube at around three o'clock on a rainy Monday afternoon.
"Let's not wait three years again, okay?" I gave her a sopping wet hug. "Love you, girl."
"Love you too, man."
Blurgh. Feelings.
Francesco took Bjorn and me to dinner at an old pub that night, then disappeared to another business meeting. None of us couchsurfers have the faintest idea as to what Francesco actually does for a living. We just know that since he primarily works from home, we're not allowed in his immaculate house from nine to five. And that he always seems to have a meeting he's bustling off to.
I'm so glad I got to reconnect with Francesco and Maud. What a perfect welcome back to Europe after three months in Asia.
And tomorrow... Misho and Ireland.
What a beautiful spring this is shaping up to be.
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