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.