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name Ryan sex male birthday 04.8.1987 aim s/n nollryan121
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Friday, April 10, 2009
 There is something spectacular about waking up in a strange place. Some mornings there is panic and confusion, but if one is at peace where he is at or know that in the confusion and strangeness of a new place, there is something there that he is meant to find and call his own. You walk the streets here, never knowing who you are to find or why. Italian, German, English, French, coffee, smoke, and always the smell of something ancient is in the air. Perhaps it is my nose, or skin color or demeanor, but I am occasionally mistaken for someone that speaks the mystery of Italian. I usually can understand what is being said, so I play the quiet gentleman who smiles and nods, agreeing with most of what is said by the other. And while if the moment is forced to climax and I have to reveal my hand, bumbling something incoherent like “I sorry, speak only English” (an embarrassing confession in itself), it leaves me free to fill in the cracks of the language barrier, to pretend that I missed a long anf dangerous romance or friendship only because my tongue and brain couldn’t work together to form the same letters in only a slightly different rhythm. Every bummed cigarette, ever query for directions is suddenly mysterious, exotic, questionable, and thoroughly justified in its necessity. Even the little children here, and the teenaged girls and the gossiping old women, all famous of course for there staggering lack of anything interesting to say, suddenly turn into muses, poets, their words tripping off the tongue like little symphonies, me smiling and knowing in the back of my head that they are talking about the same nothing that anyone ever talks about around the world, about love and lateness, neglect, frustration, triumph, last nights dinner, tomorrows disappointments. Its all been said before, but I get to hear it differently, and that fact alone brings me great peace. Rome last weekend was more than enjoyable. It is the fourth time I have been to that Great city and I think I fall for it more and more each time. I tried to sit down and write some engaging prose about what happened, all that keeps coming are the incongruities, the humor. Like wanted to stay in my first hostel for the “cultural experience” of it, which is basically akin to pitching your tent in the back yard as a kid when you have a perfectly good bed 40 yards away on the coldest night of the year. I somehow wound up in room with all girls, the only other room having been filled with heavy drunk Spaniards speaking Basque so fast that I couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening, smoking inside, and casting disapproving looks towards our English. The room I stayed in was occupied by myself, the two girls I was with, and topped off by two girls from Wis-can-seen (Wisconsin), both who looked like they routinely move large farm animals from place to place, day by day using only their brute strength. So after a long a strange night of Chinese food eaten down sketchy alley ways with fake waiting lists, a call back to my true home (and loved one) and an Irish pub run by drunken Italian, French, English speaking Australians, and graceful company to discuss the oddities of life, the terrors of the future, and graffiti, wistfulness, flower stands in full bloom at 3:00 in the morning, the year 2024, bad English translations, lapses in judgment (in general I suppose), and a good night sky to rehash and imagine what the hell happened in life that could possibly bring a Texas boy to Rome on the cusp of what is to come…I returned “home” to this hostel. It’s late to say the least by this point. The two Midwest girls are snoring. As in so loud that if one wants to use the tired, sawing logs metaphor, than I blame them personally for the phenomenon of deforestation. And this isn’t even the worst part. So even though I fell asleep, finger tips shoved in my ears, I awoke a mere hour or so later, to what sounded like air compressor kicking into function: a succession of loud, inescapable flatulence. And then again and hour later. And then again. May I remind you that there was not another male in that room, even though I prayed desperately for a different explanation, to be able to blame it on anything besides the girls that were sleeping maybe 20 feet from me. It was to say the least, a scarring experience. I guess I got my culture though. This last weekend was my birthday. I’m not going to ramble about it, but I just want to say that everyone who got me this far, thank you. To my parents, to Niki, to my friends that are still alive and well (even if they aren’t around) thank you. 22 wasn’t exactly part of the plan. I missed everyone dearly, but please know that I am happy, healthy, and I could die tomorrow a happy man if need be. Florence next week for a bit of a family reunion. Hopefully my cousin Sarah can show me the part of Florence that actually speaks Italian. Until next time… Yossarian [
9:02 AM ] |