Acro in Italy! -- Tuscany, Italy

Massi took me to Tuscany. 

Massi took me to Tuscany on a motorcycle. 

Massi took me to an acro yoga retreat in Tuscany on a motorcycle.  

... 

This is all my dreams. Coming true. Simultaneously. 

...

  

We left Cadempino Thursday night at around seven thirty, getting a much later start than planned. On account of putting off the packing until last minute (like the mature adults we are), and of... err... slightly misplacing my passport. 

I have NEVER misplaced my passport. Not in the seven years I've been hobnobbing around the world. NEVER have I even come close to losing it, I thought as we vainly searched his tidy apartment. And now, poof, it's just gone? The Canadian passport I worked so hard to get and that still has eight years left until I need to replace it? 

Fuck. I don't even have a picture of it. I had to give my copy of it to border control in Mexico. And didn't bother to make another one.

"We can go to the embassy and figure it out," Massi tried to comfort me. "I'm sure this stuff happens all the time."

But not to ME! I wailed on the inside (and a bit on the outside). I'm better than this. How could I let this happen? How could I be so forgetful? So absentminded? So stupid.

"Maybe we left it in your friend's car," I whimpered my final feeble hope. "That's the last place I remember seeing it. After we spent the night at your mom's house and then went shopping in Carrefour. It was really dark when we unpacked the car, so maybe we didn't notice it and we left it in there."

"I don't think so... We probably would have seen it since then," Massi squashed my feeble hope with his cold logic. "But we can check before we go to Milan." 

So with my American passport in tow (the passport that is almost expired, nearly out of pages, and is lacking the very important entrance stamp into the Schengen Area...), we blazed off to check the back of Massi's friend's car. 

I leapt off the motorcycle when we arrived (making sure to ask first. You never leap off a motorcycle willy-nilly, without asking. Ever. Bad things happen. Like motorcycles falling over) and rushed to the back of the car. 

"It's HERE!" I gleefully whooped (sometimes you just have to whoop. This was one of those times), happily dangling my nearly-lost Canadian passport for Massi to see. 

"But... it doesn't make sense that it would be there," my boyfriend's logical brain struggled to compute the mad world in which I live. 

So, feeling about a bazillion times better, I hopped back on the motorcycle (after asking, of course), and we sped away towards Milan. We'd hoped to get much further that night, but after the passport/packing fiasco, we decided to have dinner and drinks with Massi's friend Lucas in Milan. And then just not leave. 

Which, to be altogether honest, I was thrilled about. The road from Cadempino to Milan had been mostly highway, and riding backseat (or frontseat, for that matter) on a highway on a motorcycle is zero fun. 

Zero. Fun. 

The wind buffeted my face as we hurried down the highway (Massi is.. not... err... a slow driver), and I found myself having to duck my head to keep from straining my neck. But my neck strained anyway (it's a very thick and stubborn part of my body), which ended up giving me a raging headache. 

And we've only been on the bike an hour. We have another four-five hours of biking tomorrow... how will I manage? 

I will manage somehow, I thought, as I sipped a shockingly strong Negroni (a typical northern Italian cocktail comprised of gin, campari, and sweet red vermouth) and snacked on a piadina (which is Italy's answer to the quesadilla).

Lucas kicked us out of his apartment at seven am the next morning (he had to leave for work, the jerk), so Massi and I loaded the bike and began our journey south. With the slight mishap of discovering that during our mature, last-minute preparations the day before, we had forgotten to pack the charger for the GPS. 

Massi seemed quite upset by this. But I'm so used to not having technology and just making do (I'm a hobo, damnit. Making do is what I do), that I didn't quite realize how formidable traveling through Italy without a GPS was (because I'm a hobo, damnit. I don't normally ride around on fancy motorcycles on scenic roads. I ride around on cheapass trains and flixbuses and with nice people who pick me up on the side of the road. Who usually take the fastest roads, not the nicest ones). 

"We have another couple hours of highway before we come to the nice roads," Massi told me as I stalwartly clamored onto the motorcycle (after asking, of course). "But we can take a break in about an hour for breakfast." 

"Super," I said on the outside. On the inside I said something more akin to, Holy fucking bananas, two hours of highway on the back of a motorcycle? My head will explode. 

But the morning was cool, the day was new, and I'd learned a thing or two from the highway yesterday about relaxing and keeping my head low (also, Massi slowed down a little bit. Which helped). So when we stopped for breakfast an hour later, my head felt relatively normal.

Which isn't to say that other parts of my body weren't complaining. Namely, my ass. It was complaining. Rather loudly. 

"You can stand up on the bike, you know," Massi kept suggesting.  "Just hold onto my shoulders."

"Oh, I know," I would yell back through the wind. And then keep sitting. Although my ass was desperate for me to stand, the rest of me was quite insistent that I stay sitting down. And the rest of me won. Definitively. 

So I rubbed my poor, ignored ass while I drank my breakfast cappuccino and ate my breakfast pastry. Whilst standing. 

Massi spent a few minutes checking the route on his phone, and then we hopped on the bike and returned to the loathsome highway.

And after another hour of hanging on and keeping my head low, we found ourselves careening along winding mountain roads...

... which were pure bliss on a motorcycle (just don't ask my backside about it. My backside might still have something different to say).

So. This is where the fun begins.

The fun lasted another hour or so, and then we found ourselves on a highway yet again, near Florence. In the blazing heat. And humidity. In our heavy motorcycle gear. In achingly slow traffic.

Soaked in sweat and excessively smelly, we stopped in a small sandwich shop for lunch, stripping ourselves of our jackets and helmets and sitting in front of a heavenly fan.

Massi looked up some final directions to the yoga retreat, and we reluctantly donned our reeking jackets and gingerly sat ourselves back on the bike.

One ice cream later, several minutes of being thoroughly lost, and a couple more stops to pull out the phone and figure out where the hell we were, we arrived at our yoga retreat.

Oh no... I thought as I glimpsed a man wearing extremely flowy pants. I hope... I hope this place isn't too hippie/spiritual. For me and for Massi. 

We finally found the reception (there weren't any signs directing us there. We were probably just supposed to use our intuition), and were presented with several papers to sign. One of which said that we were not allowed to bring meat, eggs, coffee, dairy, chocolate, alcohol, cigarettes, or black tea into the ashram. And that no sensual contact was permitted.

That's bullshit, I glowered ferociously at the long list of "don'ts", and everything I dislike about yoga. Also, it's entirely unfair to blindside us with this. 

Upon finding out that we had accidentally been put into separate rooms and that the poor receptionist was too overwhelmed to help us sort it out, we decided to just book a cheap room nearby.

After everyone had checked in, we all gathered outside for a briefing and warmup. And it immediately became abundantly clear (even through the language barrier) that although the ashram was uber hippie/spiritual, the teacher and the other students were completely easy-going and delightful.

Yes. This is the yoga community I know and love. 

At nine pm, Massi and I went to find our room in a nearby village, unpacked, showered (thank GOD), and then found a gorgeous little restaurant wherein we enjoyed all the prohibited goodies. Like wine, cheese, and wild boar.

I like this way of doing it. Attending a yoga retreat, but staying outside. So that I can still have food autonomy and not live off of quinoa and soy milk. 

After a rather sleepless night (due to a veritable legion of famished mosquitoes), Massi and I made our way back to the ashram and joined the other students for the morning warmup. Which was exhausting and wonderful and awkward. As I don't speak Italian and just had to look at what other people were doing and try to follow along.

Which could have gone a lot worse. Also could have gone better.

Then we moseyed back into town for a breakfast of cappuccino, orange juice, and pastries.

The next day and a half continued in the same strain. Wonderful yoga classes, slightly awkward moments with the language barrier, delicious Italian food, and sleepless nights full of ravenous mosquitoes.

Why. WHY don't Europeans use screens on their windows? This makes NO sense to me. Most homes don't have air conditioners, so the apartments are hot. So they have to open the windows. Which ushers in all the mosquitoes. 

... 

It would be so easy to fix this problem. So why not fix it? Do Europeans ENJOY being attacked by mosquitoes all night long?

Ugh.

I was sad to leave the Ashram Sunday afternoon. Massi and I had grown a lot as acro yoga partners during the three day course, and I would have been very happy to stay there with him for weeks. Getting better at the thing I love with the person I love. 

I'm so happy and excited be able to share this part of myself with someone.

So with a sad heart and very sore muscles, I hopped onto the bike (after asking, of course) and we continued our journey towards Siena.

My Happy Place -- Lugano, Switzerland

I'm starting this post from Massi's terrifyingly white apartment. An apartment I've lived in for nearly three weeks, during which time I've inflicted a startlingly small amount of damage on the unforgiving walls and furniture (but Massi might have something different to say about this). 

I prepared a meal with turmeric in it for lunch today. And spent the entire three hours of cooking frightened that I'd somehow smear turmeric on my shorts and then transfer this inerasable yellow spice to the white couch. 

WHY DOES IT ALL HAVE TO BE WHITE? 

Ugh. I get so much anxiety from this. 

Massi is at work until after five, so I have the rest of the afternoon to write, study Italian, and maybe start a mermaid painting for a friend.  

I'm so glad I have all these things to keep me busy. Things I ENJOY doing that keep me busy. 

During the last three weeks, I've really only left the apartment with Massi. Which means I spend the majority of my days puttering around my new home, cooking, yoga-ing, painting, studying, writing, and trying not to make anything that was white not white.  

And I'm never bored. Ever. And there's always something more to be done. Like play Teal Cecile or knit a hat or write a play or -- 

I am the lady of infinite "ors" .

After work and on the weekends, we have adventures (even if I still have things I could be doing around the white apartment). On Friday afternoon, Massi's sister drove me to Carona, a small town of about a thousand people. With absolutely spectacular views of Lago di Lugano.

Massi and Elli's grandfather is one of the scant thousand residents of Carona, and he owns a typical restaurant with a perfect view of the lake. So we stopped by briefly for a drink and a chat.

After which we were asked to take Roy (the grandfather's fluffy Bernese Mountain dog) and Luna (Elli's obstreperous pug) for a walk in the park near the restaurant.

Because Elli had driven me in her car, I'd worn flip-flops (I have flip-flops now. It's crazy), and since Massi was picking me up from Carona on his motorcycle, I asked if he'd bring a pair of my shoes with him.

"Oh no," I frowned to Elli. "He's going to bring the orange ones."

"The orange ones?"

"Yes. The orange ones that you gave me because you didn't like the color. I don't like the color either, but I don't have any running shoes, and I figured I could use them. But just for running. Only for running. And Massi keeps trying to get me to wear them for other things. As a style choice. And I keep resisting. But now he's going to bring them because I won't have a option but to wear them."

Sure enough, my dear boyfriend brought me my orange shoes. My blindingly orange shoes. My shoes that make me feel as if I'm wearing solar flares on my feet.

"Be careful, there's construction on the road below," Massi's grandfather warned me. "If they see you with shoes that color --"

"They will probably hand me a shovel," I groused. 

I need to find a hiding place for these garish catastrophes. Where Massi can NEVER FIND THEM. 
 

Elli and Massi played with Roy and Luna, and I kept myself occupied with snapping some photos and pointedly avoiding looking at my feet. 

We met some of Massi's friends in Luino (an Italian town just across the border) for drinks and pizza that night. And around the drinks table, Massi's friends engaged in an intense, lengthy discussion about which hike we would go on the next day.

I've never seen people make a hike so complicated. I mean. It's a hike. It's something you do in less than a day. It's not like they're planning a two week vacation to Madagascar. 

We finally agreed on a moderately challenging hike and on the whens and wheres of our meeting place the next day. So Massi and I drove back to Cadempino and stumbled into bed. For a whopping six hours.

Which is... not a lot of hours. 

We left the white apartment a bit after eight on Saturday morning. And if you're feeling a bit groggy, there's nothing that will wake you up quite like sitting backseat on a massive motorcycle as you careen down the highway.

I can't believe this is me now. That I'm slowly, slowly getting used to hopping on a motorcycle to get from a to b. And I even have the proper gear. Helmet, motorcycle jacket, back brace, special padded jeans, motorcycle boots, and leather gloves that look like freaking weapons. 

I was living at a yoga retreat in the mountains of Guatemala about three months ago. 

... 

My life has changed so much. So consistently and rapidly and on such grand scales. 

I really hope the change slows down now. I really hope I don't have to say goodbye to this life like all the others. I hope that now is the time my life of paragraphs and verses turns into one of chapters and entire stories.  

As we wound our way up a narrow mountain road, Massi patiently showed me how to be a better backseat motorcyclist. He explained to me how my weight (and where I put it) affected the bike. How to look in the direction of the turn. And, you know, how to not slam my body against his when he braked.

We reached our hiking destination at around 10:30 --

-- and rather than hike, promptly hopped on a chairlift which floated us up the first portion of the mountain.

This. Is my happy place, I thought, looking around me and taking in the jagged mountains, the fresh air, the vibrant, cheerful wildflowers, the dozens of bubbling brooks cascading down the grassy mountain slopes.

It took me a while to even notice that we weren't on any particular trail.

Hmm, I mused to myself. I remember the trails being better marked last time I went hiking in Switzerland. Maybe it's because this is Italian Switzerland, and that was German Switzerland. Maybe people just can't be bothered to mark trails here.

Massi had some manner of app on his phone (of course he did) that let him know where the trail ought to be. So we set off in that general direction.

Although any general direction would have been absolutely fine by me.

 

I blissfully scampered up the mountain, pausing every now and then to catch my breath, enjoy the view, and capture a snippet of the beauty around me.

Massi and his two friends seemed to be doing just fine making their way up the mountain, but the girlfriends of the two friends struggled with the constant UP. Which is normal, when one is not used to constant UP.

I'm just grateful I'm actually doing a hike without a sinus infection. This is fucking amazing. I can breathe. And smell the flowers. And enjoy the clean air without having to fight my way through gobs of snot.
 

After a quick sandwich break, we continued our journey towards the trail.

Which we finally found, about forty-five minutes after starting our hike (which is less time than it took these blokes to decide which hike to go on).

In all fairness... they have an abundance of spectacular hikes available to them. I guess it makes sense that it took them so long to pick which magical mountain to explore. 
 

This feels more like it, I thought, as I recognized the familiar red and white stripes marking the way.

I wish we didn't have to go down tonight. It would be amazing to camp up here. To watch a sunset and a sunrise. To see how the mountain wakes up in the morning. 
 

One day.
 

 

We began the long journey down the mountain at two pm. And although the ascent was fairly easy for me (because I flew up the mountain on the wings of my unquenchable enthusiasm), the journey down was painful and tiring. Mostly because my injured knee started throbbing about a third of the way down.

This is so depressing to me. That my knee injury is something I just have to live with now. That life leaves us with these physical scars, emotional scars, mental scars, that we just have to accept, understand, learn to make the best of. To try not to feel bitter about. 

...

Bourget. Really. Regardless of how much your leg hurts right now and how unfair and frustrating that feels, you still have a body that carried you here. 

And that. Is something worth being thankful for.  

I found it easier to run down the mountain than walk, to give in to gravity and scamper down the slope, skittering from stone to stone like a klutzy mountain goat. 

  

I was so knackered by the time we reached the parking lot, that I actually struggled to stay awake on the motorcycle as we sped back towards Luino. 

These are the days I live for. Days spent wandering around in breathtaking nature, surrounded by good people, challenging my body in a way that makes me feel incredibly alive. 

I didn't feel incredibly alive for long. Massi and I went to his mother's home in Luino, where her housemate was throwing a party. Which I graciously participated in by voraciously consuming cheese and then falling asleep on the couch.

As I do.

The Shape of Home -- Lugano, Switzerland

I'm starting this post from Massi's living room. Watching the dappled grape leaves flutter in the breeze as the afternoon sunlight playfully dances across their heart-shaped surfaces. I occasionally hear cars on the highway below, but the peace in this space is something I haven't experienced for eight months. Eight long, loud months.

There are no dogs barking. Their are no horns honking, brakes screeching, or ice cream trucks ring-ding-dinging, rattling down cobbled street outside my window. I don't hear the sound of pigeons pecking each other on my hot metal roof, or of cats chasing pigeons pecking each other on my hot metal roof. A few leaves have been carried inside by my careless feet or wafted in on the carefree breeze, but there's not a smidgen of volcanic sand or dust anywhere.  

Anywhere. 

Thank god. 

 I sit on a soft blanket on the grey tiles, and lean against a terrifyingly white couch.

White scares me. White scares the bejesus out of me. I'm a clumsy person and have the horrible habit of breaking/staining things, regardless of how hard I try to keep my klutziness to myself (which is a lot. A lot of hard, fruitless trying). 

His apartment. Is so white. So white and fancy and nice. 

... 

This will not end well for one of us. 

... 

I've got four piles of flashcards on the black ottoman (yay, black!), each of which now boasts three languages. 

English. Spanish. Italian. 

After eleven weeks of studying Spanish with Evelin and Silvia, I am very reluctant to just, poof, replace all the half-baked Spanish bumbling about in my brain with Italian. So I'm clinging to shreds of my almost language by making my Italian flashcards with Spanish and English on one side, and Italian on the other. 

Still. I feel my Spanish slipping. And it's hard not to be sad about it. 

You have the rest of your life to learn languages, Bourget. And now it's time to focus on the one in front of you. Which is no longer Spanish. Which is okay. 

I left Guatemala City dark and early the morning of the 27th. My option was either to take the airport shuttle at 4:00 or 7:30. The journey from Antigua to the international airport usually only takes between one and two hours, but traffic can be unpredictable (and horrific), so I opted for 4 am. To, you know, not worry about running late for my 10:52 am flight. 

No one else was on my shuttle (probably because most tourists had abandoned Antigua weeks earlier, right after the eruption), and no one else was on the road (probably because it was stupid o'clock in the morning). So I arrived at the airport at 4:45 am. 

Roughly six hours before my flight 20+ hour flight. 

This is how you do, Bourget. You would rather sit in an uncomfortable chair for two hours and then wander aimlessly through a terminal for four hours than sleep three extra hours in a comfy bed and risk having to rush. 

...

Maybe consider reevaluating your priorities.  

As I couldn't check Fat Ellie until 6:52, I checked myself in and then waited. Whilst waiting, I noticed that they'd only printed off one of my three tickets. 

Oh dear. I have a flight through Panama. And I don't have a Yellow Fever vaccination. If they make me go through immigration and security in Panama and I get a stamp on my passport, they won't let me into Switzerland without proof of the vaccination. 

Poop. 

Well, there's nothing I can do now. 

So I listened to Jack Johnson's Banana Pancakes on repeat until I felt relatively calm again. In fact, by the time 6:52 rolled around, I was positively zen (mostly because I was too exhausted to be overly bothered by anything). I wove through the circuitous line again and tried to check in my dear, cumbersome Fat Ellie. 

"Hablas Español?" 

"Un poco. Pero Ingles es mejor para mi." 

"Okay. Where are you going?" 

"Zurich. To stay with my boyfriend." 

"Do you have an invitation letter?" 

"... Umm... no? But I have his address here." 

The man shook his head disapprovingly, and I felt my heart clench into a fist of fear.

"You need an invitation letter to visit him in Switzerland." 

"No. No, that can't be right," my legs trembled underneath me and my voice wavered. "I've traveled to Europe so many times before, and I've never needed an invitation." 

"You need an invitation," the fellow resolutely repeated. 

"I don't believe it," I tearfully protested. 

Fucking Guatemala. Are you not going to let me escape? 

"One moment," he typed something into the computer, then sauntered off. 

 I sagged against the counter, thoughts racing nearly as fast as my heart. 

This can't be right. It just can't be.

"Do you have your return flight?" the check-in staff returned to his computer. 

"Yes," I fumbled for a copy of my ticket from Milan to Denver. 

"Milan?" he frowned. "How will you get to Milan?" 

"Milan isn't far from where my boyfriend lives. He will drive me." 

"Your boyfriend doesn't live in Zurich?" 

"No, he lives near Lugano. Here's his address," I waved the paper at the check-in staff again. 

"Do you have his phone number?" he squinted at the address and then typed something into the computer. 

"Yes, here it is," I found Massi's number on my phone and handed it across the counter. 

Twenty minutes later, I found myself with still one ticket to Panama City, but with a backpack checked all the way to Zurich. 

"You need to get the other tickets in Panama City. Just go to the gate and they'll print them off for you. You can't leave the airport." 

"Okay, good. And... everything is fine?" I asked nervously, worried that I'd gotten through control in Guatemala only to be ambushed with another problem in Panama. 

"Yes, yes," the man waved his hand nonchalantly. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

Aaaaand, I'm reassured but not. 

I spent my final Quetzales on fruit salad and tea, and sent Massi a quick message as I recovered from the shock of nearly not being allowed to go to Switzerland. And because I'm perpetually stressed about flying and borders and passport control, and because Massi takes good care of me, he sent me a very formal looking invitation. Just in case I might need it during the rest of the trip. 

The rest of the journey to Zurich was long and uneventful. Except for the moment wherein the stewardess forgot to give me a drink and felt so bad that she handed me two small bottles of wine, I have nothing much to mention.    

I finally arrived in Zurich at 6:30 pm the following day, exhausted, rank, and cranky from lack of sleep. Which is not exactly the state one hopes to be in when seeing ones boyfriend for the first time in several weeks. 

Eh... he knew what he was getting into. I never pretended to be anything other than a quirky, cheese-obsessed hobo. 

Seeing Massi waiting for me at arrivals felt like coming home. And I gratefully (pungently/apologetically) stumbled into his arms.

The drive from Zurich to Cadempino usually takes about two and a half hours. But it took us quite a bit longer because Massi treated me to a fondue for my first meal in Switzerland. 

And I will never be able to say no to fondue. 

Ever. 

"Welcome to your home," Massi told me as he opened the door to his apartment. 

Home, I ran the forever unfamiliar word through my mind, feeling the shape of it. I'm home. 

The shape of home felt good. 

The last week has been spent enjoying time with Massi, meeting Massi's family and friends, studying Italian, and adjusting to living in a first world country. 

It didn't take me long to remember to put toilet paper in the toilet. Not the trashcan, as one does all throughout Mexico and Central America. Mostly because Massi's trashcan is a long way off from the toilet. 

I wonder if he did this on purpose...

There's still a bit of a lag time when I brush my teeth, before I remember that yes, I can rinse my toothbrush in the sink. And no, I will not get giardia from sink water. 

I still feel a burst of ecstasy whenever it's time to do the dishes, and I realize that not only do I have consistently running water, I, a) have consistently running hot water, and b) a fucking dishwasher.  

It's almost too much for me to comprehend.

I occasionally catch myself wearing clothes on the verge of offensive (and if this hobo thinks they're on the verge, then they really ought to be washed). Just because I'm used to rationing laundry. And then I remember that I live in a home. With a washing machine. Not in a tent with the nearest laundromat a fifteen minute hike down the hill and each load of laundry priced at a whopping seven dollars. 

Also. I have clothes to spare now. Massi knew the deplorable state of my, err, wardrobe, so he asked his sister (who is my size, as luck would have it) if she had any extra clothes she didn't need. And turns out, Massi's sister is an epic shopper. And could open her very own tienda of slightly used clothes, should she ever want a career change. So thanks to her, I now have probably three times as much clothes as I did when I arrived. Which is more clothes than I've had for the last seven years. 

I have three pairs of sweatpants. 

THREE. 

I've fantasized about owning sweatpants for the last seven years. But sweatpants are horribly impractical for hobos, due to their deliciously bulky size. So I've made do with yoga pants and with wearing blankets around my waist like ponderous skirts. 

But now I have three pairs of sweatpants. Several sweaters, skirts, dresses, jeans, nice shirts, jackets, and a few pairs of normal person shoes. Not all-purpose, all-season, hobo shoes.

All thanks to the abundance of Massi's sister's closet (tienda). 

In other news, Massi seems to be taking to acro yoga rather well. 

He even asked the owner of the studio where he practices yoga if she would like me to teach a few basic acro classes.

And she said yes. She would like for me to teach a few basic acro classes.

So starting next week (hopefully), I will be teaching an hour of acro every Monday and Wednesday. And Massi will be translating everything into Italian (I'm still struggling with simple Duolingo phrases like, "The candy is between the cookies" and "Why do we die?").

So since Massi's photographer friend was in town from Milan, we popped over to a nearby park and snapped some photos to help advertise our classes.

I'm gonna have an acro yoga partner. Someone with whom to share my love for this ridiculous, playful, wonderful practice.

This almost doesn't feel real. 
  

Someone I can grow with. Instead of staying at the same level for years because I can only teach basic poses to beginners, I can actually improve my own practice. 
 

 That makes me. So. Absurdly. Happy. 
 

Thus far, my main challenge in settling into this new life in Switzerland (besides figuring out what to wear, now that I have options other than "smelly" and "not smelly"), has been sleeping.

I just can't seem to manage it. My health is fine, I'm beatifically happy -- 

-- but I still can't sleep more than a few hours a night. Which makes me groggy and unproductive in the mornings, and disappointed with myself in the afternoons.

I have all this free time. I could be studying Italian, writing blog posts, painting postcards, playing Teal Cecile, practicing yoga... 

But I spend so much of my day just resisting the urge to go back to bed. 

Blurgh. 

Haha.

Oh dear. 

Maybe I know that I'm living a dream. And I'm just so afraid that I'll wake up from this beautiful dream that I can't let myself drift off to sleep. 

... 

Or maybe I'm still just fucking jet-lagged. 

Could be either.