I Spend More Time -- Lugano, Switzerland

It's hard for me to write when I'm feeling at home. Even if I'm going on adventures, engaging in all manner of interesting shenanigans, and still adjusting to living in a new country with social norms particularly challenging for hobos like me (like keeping my feet off the dashboard of a car... I was under the impression that "footrest" was the primary purpose for dashboards).

I write because I need continuity. I need something in my life that stays the same amidst the whirlwind of chaos that is my drifting existence. This blog gives this disjointed vagabond a much needed through-line. A through line that keeps me in touch with where I've been, where I'm going, who I was, who I am.

Who I'd like to be. Who I'd rather not be again. You know, the things our close friends and family usually do for us.

But when I live in a place and it feels like home, I don't have the same need for an online through-line. I'm home. Cadempino is my stability. Massi is my through-line. I don't feel the same pressing urge to express myself through writing, because I can take that need to Massi. To his sister. To his friends.

But I feel guilty for not writing. I feel like a part of me that I love dearly is slowly atrophying in the dusty cupboards of my mind. But I'm also not in the habit of forcing myself to do things I don't need to do. I'm in the habit of recognizing seasons of life, and trying to live with the seasons, without resisting.

Now is a season of settling in. Of resting my vagabond boots, and hopefully putting them away for a good long while. Now is a season of home. It isn't a season wherein I walk around thinking, I wonder how I will describe this in my blog later... I wonder if she'd be annoyed if I shared this bit of dialogue... how am I going to turn these moments of speechless wonder, these snippets of indescribable happiness, into a blog post? 

Now is a season of just living the wonder. 

I spend more time learning Italian (badly and slowly) than writing.

I spend more time strolling through gorgeous Italian villages than writing.

I spend more time photographing lakes and flowers (I mean, it's Lake Como. You can't not spend oodles of time photographing lakes and flowers) than writing. 

I spend more time getting to know Elli than I spend writing. Time during which Elli makes me feel so welcomed. So totally at home that writing doesn't even cross my mind.

Feeling totally, unequivocally accepted by Massi's family has given me such comfort. Such hope for us and our future. Such a solid feeling of support and security.

I spend more time sinking into the realization of how ridiculously lucky I am than writing.

Massi and I continue our weekend adventures. He whisked me away to Bern and Freiburg (in a car, not on a motorcycle. For which my aching low back, sore ass and knees were very grateful), to explore the cities and to visit friends/family.

One of the nice things about spending eight long months in Guatemala, is that I have a thoroughly refreshed appreciation for European cities. 

Traveling from Cadempino to Freiburg and Bern was fun for this perpetual (it seems) monolingual.

And by fun, I mean horribly embarrassing and confusing. Just in case the sarcasm dripping from my fingers wasn't conveyed properly.

Going from Italian, to French, to German was not at all pleasant for my brain. My sad, English, sort of Spanish, brain. Even though I was literally only switching around a few words. Remembering to say "salut" instead of "ciao", or "danke", instead of "merci".

I can't imagine what it would be like for these things to be natural. To just automatically switch without needing to agonize over it a few seconds before every sentence. Or, in my case, word.

This is when I wish Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy wasn't just a fantasy and that there was such a thing as a Babel fish. 

My life would be unimaginably better. 

Which is saying something, 'cos it's pretty good right now. 

I struggle to speak Italian. For several reasons, I think. Because I'm self-conscious to speak around Massi (who speaks a stupid amount of languages), and because I'm just sad that I have to start over again. In Guatemala, I had achieved a level of Spanish that allowed me to communicate my needs, no problem. A level of Spanish that even allowed me to have fun conversations with people (mostly with Silvia. Who had infinite patience and could understand my bad pronunciation and what I meant when I said things like "dientes muy inteligentes").

Just focus on learning Italian. And don't think you should be anywhere you aren't. It's okay to start over. Again. It's okay that you forget when to say "Ciao!" and when it's more polite to say "Buongiorno." 

It's okay that you're a beginner again.  That you sometimes (oftentimes) still accidentally offend people. That you don't know how to express yourself in this new language. 

You're allowed to think it's hard. To think it's frustrating and embarrassing. You're even allowed to be angry at yourself when it takes you seventeen times to remember how to say "how are you?"  

Just don't get discouraged by thinking you're somehow behind. That you have all this catching up to do. Don't invalidate the experiences that got you where you are today by telling yourself, "I'm behind." 

Because you're not behind. You're exactly where you need to be and you shouldn't be anywhere else. 

Adventure Through Italy -- Siena, Italy

The road we traveled from Florence to Siena was breathtaking, and everything I had imagined Tuscany would be. Rolling hills, covered in acres upon acres of grapevines. Golden sun slowly setting behind the undulating horizon, casting its dying glint over the verdant landscape. 

Mmmm... Nowhere else I'd rather be, I smiled serenely on the back of the motorcycle, as Massi powered along the idyllic serpentine roads. And I hung on for dear life. As one does when riding backseat on a careening motorcycle.

We arrived in Siena at around seven thirty. 

"That gives us plenty of time to find the place and meet our Airbnb host at eight," I said triumphantly. And naively. 

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of driving through Siena -- 

-- keep it that way. Just don't drive in Siena. Walk in Siena. Jog in Siena. Waltz through Siena, if you have a mind to. Just don't drive. Not in the city center, anyway. Not only is it a veritable labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways, it's a labyrinth of one-way, do not enter, pedestrian only narrow streets and alleyways. 

Even Googlemaps has given up understanding driving in Siena. It kept insisting that we take a pedestrian only street. As if throwing up its metaphorical hands and saying, "Yeah? Well, why don't YOU see if YOU can do any better, huh?"  

We could not do any better. 

We ended up parking the bike a ten minute walk from our Airbnb apartment, and just calling the host (desperate and frustrated) and asking him to please direct us.

And regardless of how maddening it is to be lost at the end of a long day of hot motorcycling and sweaty acro yoga, it was amazing to be lost in Siena.

Our gregarious host welcomed us into our tiny studio apartment, and spent ages explaining how everything in the tiny, studio apartment functioned.

Is there even enough stuff in here to warrant this kind of explanation? I thought, glancing around the adorable, itty-bitty room.

After a much needed shower, Massi and I set out into the enchanting, darkening streets of Siena. Tourists (such as ourselves) strolled the alleyways with cameras dangling around their necks and glued to their eyeballs. Families flocked around gelaterias, deliberating over luscious vats of hazelnut, pistachio, fior di latte ice cream. Couples sat around the main square, drinking spritz and waving off the ubiquitous sellers of roses.

Massi found a cheap, traditional restaurant in which to share our first dinner. So I ordered a very traditional dish -- pici (a thick, hand rolled pasta made without eggs) with a glass of chianti.

Heaven...

 Massi went a little less traditional. Ordering lasagna and an enormous craft beer.

After indulging in an ice cream in the square, Massi and I meandered back to our studio apartment. As we approached, we noticed (it would have been rather hard not to), that in the room next to ours, there was a woman playing the piano. And across the alley from her (an alley so narrow they probably could have reached across to refill each other's wine glasses), another woman was singing out of her window.

All the ridiculously sappy, romantic songs. Which they continued to play. For what seemed like forever (but was probably only half as long).

"Well, we have fewer mosquitoes," I told my boyfriend as we settled into bed, "But now we have to fall asleep to "Near -- Faaarrrr, wherever you are... I believe that the heart does go on...."

Much against Massi's nature (and much to my utter delight), we left the studio apartment at seven the next morning.

"I love cities in the morning," I gushed. "I love watching them wake up. They're quiet and peaceful and empty and not nearly as hot. We can nap in the afternoon when all the tourists are out and about and it's too hot to really enjoy, anyway."

So we spent the morning wandering through a waking up Siena.

We returned to the apartment, a sweaty, satisfied mess, at about noon. And napped until it was cool enough to return to the streets below.

Yes. This is the best way to explore balmy, touristic cities. 

Instead of re-wandering the streets of Siena, Massi and I decided to hop back on the bike (regardless of my backside's protests) and take a quick spin to Monteriggioni, a medieval, walled town about half an hour down the road.

Back in Siena, we found a restaurant offering steak tartar, cured meats, and cheeses. And it was a perfect last dinner in this spectacular city. A city bursting with fascinating architecture, captivating alleyways,  endless ice cream and wine and truffles and history and --

-- and pretty much all my other favorite things.

After a uncharacteristically peaceful night of no mosquitoes and no cheesy music emanating from our neighbor's rooms, we packed our bags and loaded the bike.

Here we go again, I tugged on the helmet and slipped into my exceptionally badass gloves (they look like something Batman might wear).

We had a long journey ahead of us, but not so long that we couldn't stop for a quick tour of San Gimignano, yet another of Tuscany's walled castle/fortress/wonderlands.

What I would give if Colorado had just ONE of these. Just. One. Even a little one. 

Europe... How I've missed you. 

After several more breaks (for lunch, for coffee, for making sure that we weren't disappearing into puddles of sweat inside our jackets and that it was still possible to regain feeling in our legs/backsides), we arrived at the coast. Just above Cinque Terre.

After settling into our new room, we ambled down to the beach to enjoy a sunset on the Mediterranean. As we were far too tired for anything more exhausting than enjoying a sunset on the Mediterranean.

We got off to a bit of a late start the next morning, saying goodbye to our host at about ten.

This is the last leg of the trip, I consoled my weary body (some parts more than others). You'll get to sleep at home tonight. And you won't need to wake up early the next morning to pack bags and hop on a bike. 

The journey home to Cadempino was long, but lovely. The road Massi had chosen swept us through mountains blanketed in pine forests, meadows dappled with wildflowers, and small, seemingly forgotten villages. 

We stopped for lunch at the end of the mountain roads, preparing ourselves for the arduous two hour highway stretch ahead.

Riding on a motorcycle gives one such a different sense of time and place. In a car, two hours feels like nothing. On a nice bus, two hours feels like less. On a bike? 

Two hours on a motorcycle on a highway feels like a week. At least. 

But two hours on a motorcycle on a gorgeous mountain road? 

About seventeen seconds. Which is definitely not enough. 

We arrived in Cadempino at around six. Where we unpacked a bit, showered (a lot) and then immediately jumped back on the bike and headed to a small town near Italy. Where Massi's mother was playing the flute and everyone was eating ribs. And I nearly fell asleep on the picnic table. While eating ribs.