For the love of Wassenberg

I leave for Germany in the morning. Although this qualifies as world exploration, its sole purpose isn't to explore, but to reunite. I'm going back to the place in which this year-long adventure began, in a town so small and so humble that the average German wouldn't recognize its name. Within it's invisible circumference is a family so near and dear to my heart that the size of the town becomes irrelevant in comparison to the perpetual love and infinite joy that I feel. 

In more ways than one, I am returning home.

Fruity Patootie.

It was 5pm on a hot afternoon and the 5 year old and I were relaxing in the kitchen, widows open, eating cherries. Then, as I lean back and nibble around the pit of the cherry, she sits up and says, "it looks like a butt hole."

And I was done with cherries for the day.

The dreams that sweaty people dream.

The weather is absolutely perfect, it really is: low 80's, light breeze, moderate humidity. In fact, were I to shut my eyes and picture things just so, it would be completely possible to imagine myself at home, lounging away on the sandy circumference of my island paradise.

Except. I am wearing two shirts and a cardigan to ensure that my modest chest and seductive shoulders are not exposed to the conservative public. I leave my apartment each day, hoping to receive the country-wide memo that announces how this ridiculous spring dress code has finally made the leap into near fabric-less summer gear.

I have dreams of Italians stopping me in the street, "Haven't you heard?" they'd ask. "Sweater weather is over!" Then we would enthusiastically shred our cardigans by tossing them into the air and proceed to frolic under the trees, relishing in the comfort of deep necklines and the eradication of sleeves altogether.

Of course, I am aware that this fantasy is confined within the fuzzy edges of my REM sleep cycle. So, until the temperature hits something more comparable to scalding, I will have to find ways to come to terms with the fact that my head is two shades darker than the rest of me.

The pitfalls of being short.

I have spent the entirety of my adult life at the paltry height of 5 feet and 1.5 inches (156.21 cm).  There really are few ways to win with this when the universe continues to use me for its entertainment. After-all, there is no other reason the explain why the height of every deodorant-immune armpit is exactly 4 feet and 10.5 inches off the groud - the exact level of my nose.

The Good Girl Vice

I don't do drugs, I don't smoke, I don't drink heavily or engage in frivolous sexual activities. I don't swear (often), steal or over-consume to the point of waste. I don't betray friends, commit treason, manipulate (knowingly), solicit, trespass, or assault others. 

So, if you're going to give a good girl a vice, make it a straight up cup of Italian coffee. Let me indulge in that artificial feeling of minor non-addition to something that is not actually an addition so much as it as a simple and throughly enjoyable morning routine.

Oh yes, I feel so naughty just looking at that big bad mug of caffeine.

The recent past and a 20 second Video.

Let's get back into the habit of this, shall we? For some reason, I was so much more diligent with my posts when I was in Germany. This is probably due to the fact that Germany functions on a regulated and predictable time pattern, whereas Italian time functions more as a variable than a constant. We're not sure who to blame for the shortness of days; The weather, the country, a malicious force that inflicts steroids upon our watches, our dependance on caffeine. Ask anyone here, they'll tell you the same thing: There's just not enough time in the day. 

Regardless, things have been well. I got a new room mate nearly two weeks ago (has it been so long, so soon? I'm always so shocked at the actual speed of life no matter how aware of it I presume to be). I started Italian lessons and have traversed the basics of singular and plural nouns to dates, times, shops and primary verbs. I took a semester of Italian five years ago, so you'd think this language would come more naturally. But no, this isn't the case at all. Italian eludes me. 

I went to Verona a few weekends ago, nearly a month ago now that I think about it (Seriously. Time? It's completely irregular). Loved the city, but loved my company even more. Sadly, Daniele, one of my very few friends in this country, has flown away and left us for West Virginia. It's actually something I try not to think about. 

And then there's the matter of summer plans, which dishearten me because I am so very bad at planning. This is my rough draft schedule for my six week European sojourn, are you ready? 

Week 1: ??? Spain? 

Week 2: Nice, France 

Week 3: Cinque Terre, Naples, Rome 

Week 4: Rome, Florence, Tuscany ???? 

Week 5-6: Volunteering in Greece.

Now here's a 20 second video that will fill you with a sense of mediocre entertainment and wasted time

Impossible to Capture on Film

If you've ever played Final Fantasy x - xii (or watched the movie, "The Spirits Within") then you are already at an advantage in visualizing the following descriptions.

Spring has since let loose a flurry of white balls that almost exactly resemble the glowing spirits of newly vanquished enemies. These light-weight particles float around in whichever direction they choose, catching sunlight at peculiar angles to make the world seem momentarily inhabited by fairies. If you wish to take the magic out of this occurrence then I will tell you that, up close, these airborne mysteries are surprisingly similar to the down feathers of adolescent ducklings. Light, fluffy and no longer attached to a city full of water residing avian creatures, it is actually sensibly possible that these things are merely the result of hundreds of baby birds transforming into full-fledged adults.

Of course, I admit that this thought is just as equally absurd as my two prior speculations, and so I feel it rather necessary to reinforce my sanity by saying that it may also be the seeds of prolific plants. Yes, seeds so marvelous that they spread their species across Italy in a way that leaves quixotic girls seeing fairies and imagining an entire riverbed populated with naked ducks. Oh, Spring, there are few things more lovely.