I do believe in fairies.

Surely there is magic hiding everywhere we go. One must simply take the time to seek it out.

Rathebeggan Lakes, summer 2014.

Why don’t you take the kids out to the garden?

I had been a nanny for about a month now, in Dublin, Ireland. The weight of homesickness occasionally took up residence on my chest, but mostly I was happy. It was my first time crossing an ocean, my first big adventure and it was only mine. I had come alone and I was making sure to firmly eschew my comfort zone. On the weekends I would zip a change of clothes and what little cash I had made that week into my backpack, sling it over my shoulder and hop trains to Kilkenny, Belfast, Cork or Galway, taking long rainy hikes and eating potato stew in dark taverns to warm up. My feet were probably always wet.

During the week, I was with the kids. They were five and one. Sometimes their mom would play hooky from work and take us all on an adventure in the car. This was one of those days.

Her auntie had an allotment, a patch in a community garden outside of the city. With a rare but treasured sunny day ahead of us, we packed the kids into the car to go for a visit.

There was a small lodge at the farm where her cousin who was visiting from Jordan was staying that week. She poured the tea and they settled in for a chat.

Why don’t you take the kids out to the garden? Head left through the trees and cross the little bridge, you’ll love it.

I took little Emily in my arms and Jack raced on ahead. As we crossed the small footbridge, a hush settled over us. I couldn’t hear the tall grass swishing, or the heat bugs buzzing, or the voices carrying from the windows of the lodge. Leaves crunched under foot and the most colourful tree I had ever seen came into view.

It’s the wishing tree, said Jack.  In front of us was a tree laden with a rainbow of silk ribbons, and a note explaining that each one was a wish, to be left with the fairies. Fairies? It took me back to my childhood on the island, building a tiny house out of moss and sticks and placing it in a bluebell patch with a welcome note. Olivia, my sister, had always believed.

We continued into the trees, and I was stunned by the beauty that I saw. This place was indeed magical. If you looked carefully, you would see tiny doorways in the trees, little bridges from one branch to the next, and tiny colourful toadstools. 

I was taken back to the summer that we held a fairy ball in the garden, the next day finding a tiny silver slipper and a miniature string of beads left behind, filling our heads with stories of what had possibly taken place after dark the night before.

The kids roamed around through the trees for some time, tapping on all the doors, examining the toadstools and pointing at the tiny clothes hanging out to dry, and eventually I brought them back inside to put Emily down for a nap. When I had a spare moment, I slipped back out to the garden on my own.

I had a small piece of string in my pocket, I don’t remember what from, but I took it out as I approached the wishing tree. I sat for a moment, wrapped in the silence of the small wood, and thought of all the choices that had led me to here and now. I wanted life to always be this way. I never wanted to forget that there are a million forms of magic, all there for us to take or admire. I never wanted to be still, or stale, or stuck.

I tied my string and headed back to the house.

Wave chasing.

When the weather turned hot, we would escape the valley, the heat bowl that is Florence, on the weekends. We would pack a basket, our red umbrella, and some food and water, hop on the train or a in rented car, and find our way to the sea.

 

We had heard talk of a beach near Montemarcello in Liguria which was more private and “wild” than the ones closer to Florence. It was called Punta Corvo, and according to the rumours was a bucket-list worthy destination, so we hopped in the car and headed northwest. We were told it was not for the faint of heart, but we didn’t know what that meant, and surely we were not faint of heart. Though we didn’t have a clear idea of how to get there, we figured we would see signs once we reached the town.

After several hours on the road and some wandering, we found ourselves at the head of a trail. It was quiet, the floor covered in crunchy leaves and pine needles. They said there was a bit of a hike to get to the beach. My roommate said. We all tightened our backpack straps and  started on the trail.

The first leg was peaceful. We came out on a winding dirt path, weaving through colourful houses and gardens, fig trees and mountain views.

It was hot, but we could see the glistening blue water in the distance, pushing us on.

After about ten minutes, the trail started to dip, and we re-entered the trees. I was beginning to sweat, wishing I had worn hiking boots rather than beach sandals. Soon we found ourselves on a very sharp decline, descending the side of the forested cliff, towards the sea which was looking further and further away the more we walked. It seemed forever out of reach as we tripped our way down the rocky path. It was hard to perceive distance from way up here, looking down at the vast blue that stretched out further than we could see. We continued stumbling our way down.

When will be get there? We’ve be walking for ages…

We must be almost arrived.

Conversation fell away as we all lost our breath, tripping over rocks and roots, hopping from one wooden step to the next, when there were steps. We didn’t stop, the sea was calling us from below, though it never seemed to be getting any closer.

After about forty minutes, colourful umbrellas came into view, encouraging us to continue on our unintentional pilgrimage. Lovers of sand and sea, unite! I chanted in my head as I forced myself to keep walking, sweat dripping towards my navel and my legs burning. Something about our beach journey seemed truly authentic to me. We were more dedicated to our love of waves than those who simply headed to the pay-beaches, where you had to rent an umbrella and loungers for the day, sitting by a bar and sipping cocktails in the sun, music pumping. We were true wave warriors, explorers, lovers of adventure.

When we finally made it to the final stretch, we were exhausted, ready to collapse. But the trees opened up and we were on the edge of a craggy cliff, turquoise water and dark sand calling us forward. When we stepped off the last stone of the path leading down, we skipped out into the hot sand, jabbing our umbrella like a flag into our newly claimed territory, flinging out our beach rug and hanging our t-shirts as we stripped down to swim suits and headed for the water.

My love affair with the mountains and the sea continues.

Ligurian Sea Love.

Cinque Terre, 2015.

I stepped off the train into the station at La Spezia, and consulted the picture of her I had saved on my phone. We had never actually met, but solo travellers have a way of seeking each other out. Since we both wanted to see Cinque Terre, we had arranged through an online forum to spend the weekend there together.

A girl in a very short skirt and high-heeled ankle boots stepped off the train, wheeling a suitcase behind her. I felt underdressed in my ripped jeans, tank–top and backpack. Hi! She trilled, throwing her arms around me, I’m Ali! It’s so funny we have the same name!

Her heels and wheely suitcase didn’t fare well on the tiny, cobbled streets that twisted there way up the cliff that is Manarola, but she didn’t seem to mind as she tittered on about a strange man on the train who wouldn’t stop harassing her for her phone number.

We wandered around and around, my backpack growing heavy on my shoulders as we wound our way up in search of our hostel, which we finally stumbled upon, at the very top of a steep hill, after walking for about thirty minutes. I don’t think she stopped talking the entire time, but I kind of liked her.

We dropped our bags in the dorm, which held three bunks, six beds, and she decided on a pair of trainers, in place of the heels, to go exploring in. We meandered our way back down towards the harbor, admiring the colourful houses tucked into the side of the cliff, and the sparkling blue water that came into view below. There was something magical, quaint, and anything but rushed about this little village. I was charmed.

After a seafood dinner with a spectacular view, we decided to see what we could find for late-night fun. We soon passed a small pub, with music spilling out onto the street, and ducked inside. The pub was a few steps down from street level, and was dark but cozy inside. The music we had heard from above was coming from a dark corner at the front of the room, where a man with dark skin and thick dreadlocks was playing a guitar and singing with a deep but cheerful voice, next to a grey old man with a beard on a stand up bass. We ordered a beer, took a seat and got to chatting.

Not only did we share the same name, but we were both from Canada. More than that, we were both from southern Ontario, a strange but comforting coincidence. We talked about what it was like being abroad on our own, the people we had met so far, and the beauty we had seen that day. We had witnessed the most amazing golden sunset, one that I will never forget.

Before we knew it, a very energetic man sprang onto one of the tables near the front of the room, flute in hand, and joined the melody while leaping from table to table, dancing and grinning as he went. We both burst out laughing at the intensity and sheer joy with which he worked his flute and the room, high notes piercing the stale pub air. There was something utterly contagious about his joy, and we couldn’t stop laughing as he twirled around the room like a pied piper.

Soon he climbed down from the tables to take a break and headed towards the bar, where at some point, a birthday cake had been brought out to celebrate someone in the room. The cake was cut and pieces handed out to anyone and everyone. The pied piper himself handed me a piece of cake, saying Welcome! as he did. Thank you, I said, taking the paper plate and fork with a smile.

We stumbled back to the hostel feeling content, having glimpsed such a lovely moment among the locals of this very small village. Want to go for a swim tomorrow morning? I asked her, feeling inspired to make the most of the sea before our morning departure. How early? she asked warily, I’m not really a morning person.

Let’s go first thing, while the harbor is still empty.

The next morning, I dragged my new friend out of her bunk, and we headed down to the harbor, climbing up onto the rocky pier and looking down into the sapphire waves as the crisp morning air nipped at our bare arms. I hadn’t packed a bathing suit, having assumed that October was too late for swimming, but I slipped out of my jeans and t-shirt anyways, discarding them on the rocks, and leapt out from the cliff. The freedom I felt in the split second between the rocks and the waves was bliss, and I felt all the uncertainties about uprooting myself and moving to Italy melt away, as the water came up and over me. I broke the surface and laughed.

It was then that I fell in love with the sea.

 

Speak(easy).

In 2014, if you wanted to go to the Blind Pig in Dublin, you had to make a request. This involved tracking down their elusive contact information which included no address or phone number, and sending an email stating the date and hour that you wanted to arrive, and the number in your party. Then, you waited.

If you were lucky, you would receive a message back with, not an address, but instructions on how to find it.

We were lucky.

The name The Blind Pig was a tip of the hat to the policemen who turned a blind eye to the speakeasies during prohibition in the 20’s. Though alcohol was technically illegal, certain officers who occasionally partook chose to let sleeping dogs lie.

The message said to walk down Wicklow Street, a street I had been on many times in the typical Irish rain, window shopping, rushing from one store to the next to avoid getting drenched. On Wicklow, we were to look for an ATM of a bank I can no longer remember, beside which there would be an unmarked black door. On this night, it was raining lightly as we picked our way around the puddles.

Next to the door was a keypad. We had been given the numbers to enter, and we did. The door clicked open, and we pushed through. We found ourselves in a dark alleyway, as they said would be the case. Don’t be a scaredy cat, the message had taunted. Follow the alley to the end.

There was a man sorting bottles in the dark to our left, and we were ready with the password, should he question our right to be there. We’re just here for the old lady’s funeral. But he didn’t ask.

At the end of they alleyway, we spotted the second black door, this one with a small white image of a pig, about eye level. We entered the second code, finding ourselves at the top of a very dark, very daunting set of stairs. This must be it, I said to my friends, who were hanging back. Let’s go.

We made our way down, down, down into what felt like the belly of Dublin. We passed an open door with men in aprons rushing their way around a dirty kitchen, the sound of dishes and silverware clattering.

When we finally reached the bottom, we heard nothing but silence, facing a heavy red velvet curtain. I pushed it aside, and we stepped back in time.

Jazz music was playing softly as a man in suspenders and a cap swiftly intercepted us. Name? He asked. Allie, I told him. He looked down at a list, which he had produced from his breast pocket. Right this way. He motioned for us to follow, and seated us at a small booth in the corner of the room. Some reading material for you to enjoy this evening, he said, returning with a stack of dusty, classic novels in hand which he distributed around the table. Thank you, we said, slightly confused as he breezed away. What are we meant to do with these? Asked my friend, looking down at the closed book in front of her. Look! I said, flipping through mine. Hidden amongst the pages were the names of the available cocktails. We were getting the hang of this.

We drank away the evening, reminiscing about weekend trips and parties and hikes and people, knowing this might be the last time we would see each other, at least in this corner of the world.

When we finally climbed back up out of the belly of Dublin, the streetlights, traffic, and late-night partiers seemed a shock after our trip to 1920’s prohibition era Ireland.

The start of something.

How did I become so restless? A girl who grew up, went to public school, high school and university all in the same small town, a girl who has anxiety about the unknown. And yet, here I am, skin crawling with the effort to stay put.

After I graduated from university in 2014, I knew I had to do the thing. The travel thing that recent grads were supposed to do, to get it out of their systems. I decided to become an au pair, and chose an English speaking country, to ease my anxiety at travelling alone across the ocean for the first time.

I hopped on a plane headed for Dublin, thinking three months seemed like an awfully long time, and hoping I wouldn’t fail and come home early. I didn’t.

It took me a few days to start feeling okay, but everything was new, and beautiful, and green.

My host family was amazing, and quickly became dear friends of mine. During my free time, when I wasn’t looking after the kids, I could go anywhere and do anything, without having to plan or coordinate with anyone. I spent time alone. I spent a lot of time alone, and my my surprise, I actually loved it.

I travelled on weekends, I stayed in hostels for the first time, I asked questions and met strangers and saw amazing things. I went for solo hikes and asked for recommendations from everyone I met. I rode my bike, read books and went on tours, taking it all in and coming out of my small town shell.

 

I made friends, who quickly became best friends since we were all so far from home. I went on adventures with whoever wanted to join. 

I gained weight from eating non-stop potatoes, yet felt the healthiest I had ever been. I saw beauty everywhere, and and my fear and timid nature began to slide away.

When I came home, I was full of energy, and so inspired. Though I was happy to be back, I would often wake up with an ache in my heart, wanting to go back. Ireland will always hold a special place in my heart, and it lit a fire in me that defines the woman I am today.

 

Things to not write home about

I am sweating. Last night’s black blouse and black jeans with a denim shirt slung over top aren’t faring well in the morning-after’s sun. When her building finally comes into view, I think I will collapse with relief. Va bene qua, grazie. Here is fine, thanks. I toss some cash at the driver and practically leap out the door, breaking into a jog almost before I hear it slam shut behind me. I jog around the corner and up to the gold panel, which has what seems to be hundreds of names on it, for the whole palazzo, divided into several sections. Fuck. What was her roommate’s name again? I waffle for a moment, before trying one that could be it.

Si?

Sono Allie, mi puoi aprire?

Chi?

Allie!

The door buzzes open and I dash up the four flights of old stone steps, three at a time. When I reach the top, the door is already open a crack for me. I step through in a hurry, tossing a look at her roommate, who is cleaning the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up. Good night? She asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

I push Juliette’s door open and find her still curled into bed. I collapse onto the bed next to her, letting out the breath it feels like I’ve been holding for the past two hours, wandering aimlessly around Rome. She looks up, rubbing her eyes. Where the fuck were you?

…

     I stepped off the train, buzzing to see her. It had been too long, and I couldn’t wait to catch up. I wandered around the station, getting jostled by people and rolley suitcases for a while, before spotting her standing outside of Sephora, looking towards the platforms, a half smile on her face as she waited. I smiled to myself and watched her for a moment. Her hair looked shinier, and her skin bright, her grin revealing what I knew to be good-humoured impatience. I made my way over and threw my arms around her.

Hey.

Hey.

I had forgotten how much I missed her, and our wild Roman nights. It had been too long, and now everything had changed. We had catching up to do.

…

     After dropping my backpack at her apartment, we wandered our favourite streets, had lunch, had a nap, then around dusk made our way down to a shop in her neighbourhood where you could bring old bottles and fill them with wine from large silver vats for 2euro per bottle. We went to the alimentari and got some vegetables, and were ready for our night to begin. We cooked dinner in her tiny old kitchen with her roommate, the window facing the square below in gritty, student-populated San Lorenzo.

By the time we had cooked and eaten our pasta and vegetables, we were all a little tipsy, the large bottle now somehow empty. Her roommate headed to bed, while the two of us touched up our makeup, slipped into shoes, light jackets, and were soon out the door. While we were walking to meet her friends in Monti, a boutique quarter about twenty minutes on foot filled with quaint bars, cobbled streets and cozy cafes, I had a thought and turned to her.

Remember barman Marco?

The bartender from APT? With all the tattoos? From last year?

Yeah. Should I text him? I wonder if he still works there.

You never know, we’re heading that way anyways. He was always giving you cheap cocktails.

We reminisced a few blocks about those nights. We used to meet at APT, a cozy basement bar that smelled like old books, every Wednesday after work. We would bring scraps of paper and fold paper cranes while we talked about life. We wanted to make a thousand, it’s good luck. Really we couldn’t afford to drink in that bar, but we were so regular we often got free drinks. I think they liked having us in the corner on quiet Wednesday nights, folding away and sometimes leaving a few cranes behind on shelves or tables. When I got my first big contract, at the university, we celebrated there with a bottle of sparkly wine in a bucket of ice, something neither of us had ever indulged in. We cheered when he uncorked it and happily clinked our glasses together while dreaming about renting an apartment in that quarter, with high ceilings and wood floors, something we of course never did.

Turned out barman Marco worked at a different bar now, but upon realizing I was back in Rome offered to pick me up later. So no free drinks from APT. Oh well. I let him know we would be in San Lorenzo later and that he was welcome to meet up with us, then tossed my phone into my bag again.

After a few drinks in Monti, we left Juliette’s friends, a collection of med students from various countries around the world, all studying at the university, and we made our way back to S. Lorenzo to continue our night in the lively square below Juliette’s kitchen window. My eyes lit up when I saw that although it was now close to three a.m, the square was still packed. There was a group of hippies seated on the pavement playing various musical instruments, the rest of the people dancing recklessly around them. There was a girl, about my age, juggling fire with a huge grin on her face. Their happiness and freedom were contagious, and I dove into the crowd, starting to sway to the music while Juliette rolled a cigarette. We were offered drugs, two, three, maybe four times while we danced and drank, vuoi fumare? You want to smoke?

Where are you from? Said a voice over my shoulder in Italian, with a strong Spanish accent. I turned and saw a very beautiful man, with long dreadlocks reaching towards his belt, tied back with a large elastic. I was drawn to him immediately, he smelled like spices and sweat, making me feel more intoxicated than I already was. Hi. He looked directly into my eyes as he repeated his question. He was from Argentina. I found myself completely lost in our conversation that I can’t for the life of me remember now. Lost to the point that I was surprised when I checked my buzzing phone to see several missed messages from barman Marco, the latest of which reading, Sono qua, in piazza. Macchina nera. He was in the square, black car. Shit. I looked around me and saw a black car, dark windows, lights still on, parked at the edge of the square. I hadn’t thought he would come. It would be rude to ditch him after he drove all the way here to see me, but…Where? I don’t see you, I texted back to gain a few more moments with Argentina. There was something about his soft manner and gentle eyes that made me want to stick around.

What’s wrong? He asked. You are distracted by your phone.

I’m not, I responded, smiling at him briefly before eyeing the car again. But I have to go, I said, leaning in and kissing him softly on the mouth, something I might not have done sober.

I tried to step away, towards the car, but he wrapped his arm around me tightly then and pulled me close to him, kissing me deeply. He really did smell good. I have to go, I repeated, backing away. I quickly turned around and scanned the crowd for Juliette, spotting her a few feet behind me chatting with Argentina’s friend, who I could tell she didn’t want to be chatting with. She shot me a look.

I’m leaving, I called to her. I’ll see you in the morning.

What? No. She called out, Where are you going?

But I was already striding towards the black car waiting for me. I hated keeping people waiting. Argentina trailed after me, Where are you going? Wait! He caught my hand and pulled me in for one last kiss, and I was nervously aware of the fact that I was now just metres from the car, well within the spray of the headlights. The engine was running. I have to go, I said one last time before jogging over to the car, opening the door, and sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Buonasera, said barman Marco with a chuckle, eyeing me over, eyebrows raised.

Hey, I said, fastening my seatbelt. Let’s go.

…

            I awoke with a start, my eyes on a ceiling I didn’t recognize. I heard heavy snoring that I assumed likely wasn’t coming from Juliette. Head pounding, I squeezed my eyes shut as I turned my head to my right, then slowly opened them again. Fuck. I was next to a very tattooed, very bearded man. Fuck. I slipped out from under the silver duvet as quietly as possible, tiptoeing to the living room, which was dark with all the curtains drawn. I felt around for my clothes, which were scattered around the room. Fuckfuckfuck. My mouth was so dry. I spotted my phone in the corner of the couch. Oh thank god. I unlocked it to send an s.o.s to Juliette, only for it to shut down mid message, out of battery. Fuck. I could still hear barman Marco snoring from the bedroom, I still had time. I was bursting to pee. I peaked towards the bedroom door, realizing I would have to go back in to get to the ensuite bathroom. Could I quietly slip in, pee, and get out without him waking? Didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t want to have to pee outside in broad daylight, so I held my breath, darted into the bathroom and relieved my aching bladder. I eased the fancy tap open to wash my hands, accidentally spraying water all over last night’s shirt. When I quietly opened the bathroom door, I noticed the snoring had stopped and could hear barman Marco stirring in the bed. With no time to waste on making a game plan, I grabbed my purse off the floor and headed out the door.

Rushing down the stairs, I reassured myself that I couldn’t be that far from Juliette’s house…I would surely recognize something. I let myself out of the building after fumbling a few moments with the apriporta before stepping out into the seven a.m sunlight. I took off at a brisk pace down the street, not recognizing anything in this little suburb that I had never seen before in my life, trying not to panic, wishing I had sunglasses. I spotted a tram stop and read the list of stops. Piazza Vittorio Emanuele…I was sure that was close to Juliette’s. From there I could probably find my way. Unfortunately, I had no ticket and all the shops were closed, with it being a Sunday, but I decided to risk it. If the ticket checkers came around, I would turn on the waterworks and hope they let me off without a fine. I hid my money in the secret pocket of my purse so I could claim I didn’t have any, should they ask.

When the tram finally rolled around the corner, I jumped on, choosing not to take a seat but to stand with my face pressed against the door, hoping to recognize something, or to spot the ticket checkers before they spotted me. When we reached Vittorio Emanuele, I hopped out, feeling confident that I had seen this large piazza before, and that I would be able to find my way back to San Lorenzo from here. At least I was back in the city. I set out with a confident step, deciding to do one big circle around the square, individually evaluating each of the streets leading out of it for familiarity.

One big circle became about fourteen, round and around, my confidence quickly becoming desperation as I realized that the way home could be any one of these streets fanning away from the piazza. I began to sweat, my head pounding, as I repeated my circular track again and again, frantically searching for details that would indicate which was the correct street to take. I weighed my options: maybe I could hail a taxi? I tried. My limp and dejected hand wave just wasn’t cutting it. Maybe I should just go about my day and pretend I wasn’t lost at all? I had some cash, I could simply go for breakfast, read a paper, go for a walk and forget getting back to Juliette’s until a later time. No. That was a bad idea. I decided to try to make my way to the station, which I knew to be close by, and then get a taxi from the taxi station there. It would cost me the last of last night’s cash, but I was all out of options. I stopped and asked a woman with a large backpack which was the right way. She didn’t really know either, but she gave me some hope and a vague indication of the general direction. I finally exited the circle I had been turning for the past hour and struck out towards the station (hopefully).

When I finally made it, I marched up to the first taxi I saw and got inside. San Lorenzo, per favore. I was going to make it. My throat was dry with anticipation as we sped through the Roman streets, weaving through traffic, familiar monuments rolling past, swarming with tourists in sunhats carrying cameras around their necks. God I must look like shit right now. When her building, overlooking the scene of last night’s debauchery, finally came into view, I thought I would collapse with relief…

…

When I finally plugged my phone in to charge, it immediately buzzed, indicating a new message. Where did you disappear to last night, segnorita? You left me with a mouth full of kisses and my head full of your perfume…

Argentina.

I smiled. I’m leaving today, meet me at the station?

Everything might be different.

 

My last lesson on a Thursday preceding a five day weekend comes to a close. There are never ending holidays here. I toss my books into my bag, jog down the stairs of the Statuto palazzo and step out into the seven o’clock sun, hot and low. I make the eight minute walk to a friend’s house, the straps of my backpack making my shoulders sweat beneath my tee.

I’m here, buzz me up.

We throw a chilled bottle of white, some plastic cups and a bag of chips into a bag, and are back in the elevator within five minutes. It’s piazza season.

The sun is still up when we reach the steps of the basilica, searching for a space to put ourselves among the people lounging in the late sun, drinking, talking, playing music. The weekend starts now, she says, pouring me a glass before pouring one for herself too, cheers. 

Everything is different. It’s been just over a month since I moved apartments, quit the job that gave me a sense of security but also dread, and left a relationship that I had outgrown. For the first time almost since I arrived three years ago, I am on my own here and without a solid plan.

Since this shift, I have fully immersed myself in the forest project, a little school in the countryside where learning doesn’t mean sitting in desks and rows. My face is freckled and my arms brown from afternoons spent in the field, picking wildflowers or building forts. I could feel lost, I could, but instead I feel more myself than I have in a few years. Sun-sleepy and dirty most days, but having found my tribe.

We talk about that, we talk about other stuff, we talk to some Americans sitting behind us, and the sun goes down on the square, the temperature decreasing only slightly as the contents of the bottle dwindle. The crowd increases, guitars are brought out, bottles clink, rolling down the steps as they’re tripped over by step dwellers looking for a spot.

Everything is different but everything is okay. I live in an apartment I can barely afford but it is full of sunlight and plants I buy on payday with a grin as I lug them home and up the three flights of stairs. I work in a job that will only continue to exist if a small group of people continue believing there are better, more natural ways of education, against the grain of Italian society. I’m on a visa that will expire soon if I don’t write an exam I’ve been putting off since December. But I’m here in this piazza, and the bricks are warm on my hands, which I’m leaning on.

We finish the bottle and without much hesitation walk around the corner to the shop to buy another, reclaiming our spot when we return. At a certain point I stop thinking about tomorrow, if I ever was thinking about tomorrow, and settle into the fact that I won’t be home for dinner. But there’s always breakfast.

 

The Taste of Watermelon

It snowed in Florence. The fountains froze mid-spray. In the forest on my way to work in the tiny farmhouse-turned-school where I teach, we found a giant toad, frozen on the path mid-stride, on his way to somewhere. We took him along with us and called him Viktor.

My winter parka still has a Canadian nickel in the pocket. It reminds me of riding my bike through the avenues with my skirt tucked into my snowpants. The avenues remind me of sangria on back patios, the smell of cool grass laying drunkenly in the yard under the drooping sun. The smell of spices in shops where you can bring your own jars. The smell of old furniture at summer yard sales.

Winter may have gotten into me, inside of me. I’m cooling from the inside. Cooling towards things I used to love, rules I used mind, things that used to make me angry, thrilled, crazy.

If I close my eyes, I can hear waves. I can feel sun on my cheeks, on my back. I can smell cigarettes and campfire, hear the pop of flames, the thrum of the highway, the zip of tent zippers and the swish of the hammock. I don’t know where to look for those anymore.

My life fits neatly into compartments. Here and there. The “there” box has been feeling dusty. More nostalgia than reality.

This dusty sadness has settled over me like the cold over the city.

I wonder if Viktor will thaw?

 

A Window Frame.

After a prayer, we all lit our candles, passing the flame one by one amongst us until the sanctuary had a warm and flickering radiance about it. We pulled our scarves tighter, and stepped out into the cold December evening. The winter dark was made less dreary by the canopies of Christmas lights illuminating what felt like every corner of the city, and the first carol we sang crowded on the sidewalk outside of St. Mark’s church. Passers by paused with smiles, curtains in windows were parted.

We made our way to piazza Santo Spirito, and took to the steps of the basilica, turning to face the square. Scarves swished, boots stamped and candles dripped onto mittens as our voices rose into the night. Slowly, listeners began to emerge from cafés, restaurants, bars and doorways, as if by magic. Smokers outside came to have a look, arms crossed against the chill. Children pointed and couples joined hands, smiles settling onto their lips. Memories of cocktails on hot and languid September nights in the square were far away, replaced by a reverent and Christmasy glow.

We moved to the centre of the square, surrounding the fountain, and once again sent our voices to the sky. Some had followed us from the basilica to hear more. I turned my eyes high, and saw a curtain part. The face of an old man peered down at us, first with curiosity, then joy as he threw the window open wide to let the music in. A smile brightened his face as he listened to the familiar hymn. After disappearing for a brief moment, he reappeared with his arm around a fragile looking woman, who he guided to the window. They held each other for a carol or two, before closing the window against the cold.

My toes quickly loosing feeling, I shuffled my weight back and forth as I wondered how long that couple had inhabited that space above the square. What had they seen? Had they seen me?

 

By candlelight and cajon.

My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark when I entered the room. It was a small room, lit with a cluster of candles on a low coffee table, surrounded by cushions, mostly occupied by other people. Welcome, someone said. I took a seat. Liz took a seat beside me. I couldn’t make eye contact with her, knowing that if I did, we would both burst out laughing with my I told you this would be weird facial expression. I looked around at the others who occupied the space, a man with long blonde hair and a ginger beard, a guy with cropped hair which I couldn’t define as grey or blonde in the dim lighting, holding a guitar, a young guy in a toque with a laptop balanced on his knees, and several others, among whom sat our host, perched on a cajon. He welcomed everyone again.

…

My footsteps echoed loudly on the wet marciapiede, making my boots sound elegant, when in fact they were just cheap rain boots with a very hard sole. I asked through the walls of my hood to Liz, behind me, what exactly he had said when he invited her, what exactly we were going to.

I don’t know, a party I guess! He said it was a get-together, a few friends, some music, nothing particular. For some reason I found myself suspicious. But then again, I’m often wary of unfamiliar social situations.

We rang the bell, and he came to open the gate for us, giving us both a hug, which felt awkwardly intimate compared to the usual Italian double cheek kisses in which you rarely actually made physical contact with the other. Liz was right, he was attractive, I guess. He thanked us for coming. After you, he said, motioning for us to enter.

I don’t hear any music, I whispered to Liz, are you sure it’s a party? She shrugged her shoulders. We hesitantly stepped through the door.

…

Now in the circle, we were told this was a safe and shared space, where we could say anything and let our creativity roam freely. Improvisation was encouraged. Oh god, I thought. With that someone passed him a guitar and he began to strum. The music picked up, and others joined in. Soon there was a combined cadence…several guitars, some low rhythms emanating from the laptop, the cajon, fingers tapping jars, palms beating laps… not bad.

I began to relax a bit. Okay, this isn’t so strange I guess. An observer, a wallflower by nature, I began to sway, my eyes roaming over each of my circle mates, examining their facial expressions, body movements and where their own gazes fell, as they made music. In between chords, or as instruments were shuffled around the circle, I learned that ginger beard was a busker, passing through, the French boy near me was in Florence perhaps another week, maybe two, and the girl on the cushion next to me tapping a glass jar with her ring was American, studying art. But all conversations were soon drowned out by music.

I was starting to feel almost at ease, watching these people and the ways in which they interacted, those who were strangers, new to the circle like us, and those who knew each other well. The music eliminated the need for awkward small talk. I felt like an anthropologist, observing a strange social ritual of Santo Spirito hipsters. But then…

Never stopping to strum his guitar, our host announced that he would begin a song, which would then be passed around the circle, for each person to add to in turn. Oh no. I immediately leaned uncomfortably back, seeking an exit from the tight space. Could I somehow slip out of the ring of candlelight and remain unnoticed in a corner? Where was the bathroom? Maybe I could pretend to smoke, go out for a cigarette? But it was too late, the song had begun, and our host was making eye contact with me as the tune crept ever closer to me. People sang about their day, they sang about the paintings on the wall, they sang about singing. I wracked my brains for some line I could sing out and pass the tune quickly along, but all that came to mind was I’m not a singer. I’m not a singer.

I’m more of an observer, I stuttered when the lyrics had finally reached me. Never breaking eye contact, he said, we are all observers here, Annie, all on the same level, and continued strumming.

My name is Allie, actually, I mumbled, internally rolling my eyes while averting my gaze and trying desperately to pass the attention to the American artist next to me. My face was burning. After a few moments of failed encouragement, the song went on and I was free.

But it didn’t stop there. Several times we were put in the spotlight and pressured to produce lyrics. Just sing whatever comes to your mind, he said, in what I imagined was meant to be a soothing tone. As he shushed some others who were having a quiet conversation on their side of the circle, telling them this was a place for singing, not talking, an image of the beetle from Thumbelina came to mind… don’t speak, just sing, toots! and I laughed quietly to myself, the absurdity of the situation becoming more and more entertaining.

When we had finally had enough and began reaching for our coats, we were sung at to stay, the group chanting, don’t go until you sing, but we made a swift exit. Our host walked us out, asking if next time he could paint us. Like a portrait, he said.

We said we would see.

We maintained silence until the door was closed firmly behind us. Liz turned to me. My bad… she said.