May 6

I’m on a train back to Innsbruck. I might end up in Vienna, Budapest, and Brussels before picking Lyd and Lor up in London early on the 12th.

Back to the story. The one guy, Arthur, who was with us got 4th place in the race out of over a hundred bikers. Pretty cool. He was alright with 4th place. Next year. There’s always next year.

We ate a lot of good Austrian bread. And cheese. And sausage. We ate alphabet soup and thought about playing word games but I don’t know that much German. And it was dark. We made pasta al pesto and drank tea in the morning with more bread and cheese and sausage but also sweet bread and nutella.

We hiked up a mountain. It wasn’t that long, about 45 minutes to the top. Get ready for three and a half thousand steps, Niklas said. Couldn’t have been that many. Anyway, I didn’t count. Along the hike we’d stop and drink water and breathe and internalize the lake and mountains. There are still World War I bunkers in the mountain we climbed. When we got to the top there was a clearing that was the roof of the bunker. There we ate cookies and napped in the sun. Funny how we find new uses for old things.

We brought bikes. We rode all over the little city. We went to a little town outside of Garda with a killer pizza place. It was a completely residential area with just a few local shops. And this pizza place.

I noticed that the kids play everywhere. We’d been to three or four little towns in the area and every town seemed to not only be having a festival of some sort, but the children would run around and play hide and seek Everywhere. Every café has outdoor seating and the kids would run around the tables. Man, life Rocks when you’re a kid. And it Rocks when you’re 21 and hanging out in Italy. The places we went were filled with 3 kinds of tourists, Niklas told me. The rock climbers. The bikers. The chic women on vacation. You can spot them all by their terrible clothes and corresponding accessories. Shoes are also key to identifying why a person’s at Garda.

I learned some German while in Italy which helped me communicate with Niklas, Arthur, and Mati. It hasn’t helped me so much in the rest of my time in Italy.

I realized very quickly when I continued my journey south to Ferrara that I knew next to no Italian. Ciao. Prego. Gratzzia. This made things a little difficult. Never in my life have I not been able to communicate like this. I remember working at Enzo Pizza and encountering people who only spoke Spanish. I knew a little. Pointing helped a lot.

But when I had to order food on my own (because Rhi had classes on Monday) I couldn’t help but feel incredibly stupid. And alone. The waitresses were nice enough. They were not by any means rude or uncompromising. I still couldn’t help but feel like I was doing things the wrong way or that I wasn’t understanding completely.
After sitting there for a bit a man of about 45 or so came in. The people behind the counter started singing happy birthday and brought out a flat chocolate cake with candles in it. The man was absolutely tickled. I watched and missed Enzo Pizza a lot. It reminded me of the regulars that would come in and bring us homemade cookies and cake and other sweet treats. It was like when someone who worked in another store at the mall had a birthday and they came down and we all signed a happy birthday card and gave them a free meal. ::sigh:: I miss Enzo Pizza and I think I always will. It was the best job I’ve ever had and I feel like I grew up there.

As I stared at them involuntarily, thinking all these longing thoughts about home and Enzo’s, the birthday man turned and addressed me in Italian. The waitress then addressed him in Italian informing him that I couldn’t speak Italian. So he spoke to me in English! He offered me cake. Now, mind that I’m the only person in the restaurant. He asked where I was from. Mentioned his love of Frank Zappa. Told me Bush was (indicating crazy with his index finger making circles around his temple) and that things will get better with Obama, because they can’t get worse. He laughed. He offered me more cake because I’d taken so little. He gets coffee there everyday and they knew it was his birthday and couldn’t wait to surprise him.

I love it when people have that kind of home. A place where they can go that’s not their house and the people aren’t blood relations but there’s still an unmistakable sense of belonging. I don’t belong there in that café/restaurant in Ferrara. I was a temporary on-looker. I was just one of the many minor characters that’s on stage for part of one scene, adds a bit of interest, allows the character of the main characters to be tested, and then exits stage left while the cast continues to encounter one entertaining situation after another.

After that lunch I tried to go to a museum that was closed. I had three hours until Rhi was done with classes so I went to the main Piazza in front of the cathedral. I basically sat there the whole time in the sun (until the shadows slowly rolled around) an I wrote and doodled and watched people and made up stories about their lives that included many of the places I’ve been in Europe as backdrops.

I really should remember to blog a little more regularly because it’s so hard to capture all the little things when I wait a week because so much happens in week. Less than a week. I’ve got two new bands to listen to. I’ve got a partly nice tan and a partly pink sunburn. I’ve learned some German. I’m in the midst of planning European Adventures ’09 starting Lydia Fischer, Lori Ludwig, and Sarah VanVlerah. I predict a lot of Greek beaches in the very near future.

Though I am a bit of an internet junky I was very proud to have spent a solid 3 days not on my laptop. I don’t think it’s so much the internet I’m addicted to. I sure it’s communication. It’s relationships that exist across time zones and molecules and miles and all kinds of spacey things. I don’t use my phone cuz it’s obscenely expensive, or I’m sure I’d always be on the phone. I think the only people I’ve called in the states are Sheena (on her 22nd birthday), my Grandma Jo (on her somethingith birthday) and Enzo Pizza (to see if they’d deliver to Liverpool).

Like I said over 1000 words ago, I’m going to Innsbruck again. This time to see Seb B’s mom. I just really really can’t wait to hug a mom. I have to say I miss my own quite a bit but I’m a big girl and I’m in Europe and I’ve been here for four months and I’ve got another three to go and I chose this and I’m happy with all of that. But. I still can’t wait to hug a mom. And drink some coffee with her.

I sometimes find so many things delightful it’s overwhelming. I see so many beautiful things and I have trouble breathing at a normal pace. I start to lose control of my arms and legs and my hands grab out for the sky and my feet pound the earth in disbelief. “Earth! Are you still here? Is this what you really look like and feel like? Earth! You’re so soft and green right here but over there you’re hard and grey.” How great thou art, my fingers seem to read when they touch the bark of trees and their leaves and the tiny pebbles from the water and the miniature snail shells hidden in the dirt. My shoulders draw towards the sun and beg for more vitamin E. And with a slightly puppyish energy I sniff and smell for flowers and grilling meat and the sea and the air way over here, so far from where I’m used to.

The third morning I was at Garda I woke up, put on my flip flops, started to dig around for bread and cheese and thought, “Have I really looked at the mountains yet?” I hadn’t and I owed them their due.

I’ve been writing basically the whole time I’ve been on this train. So since one. It’s now 3:45. My laptop’s got 34% battery left. I’m going to listen to Abbey Road and drift off for the next 45 minutes till I arrive in Innsbruck and get a good mom hug.

Oh! Wait! I have a house! A house in Indianapolis on Terrace just north of campus and I’ll be living with 3 of the 5 coolest girls in the world: Lydia Fischer, Lori Ludwig, and Lyndsay McBride. (Sheena being the 4th and me being the 5th. I’ll obviously be living there but Dear Sheensta will be moving to France in October to teach English, maybe for the rest of her life. Who knows with that whimsical young woman).

There were fears (and somewhat legitimate ones) that I may also leave the country and just never find my way back. Let me put those fears to rest for now. I’ll come home but there’s not guarantee I won’t be off again to a new place. Though I won’t be solo then.