In my dreams

Last night I dreamed I traveled to a foreign country and as I was leaving, I remembered that I had a ton of gifts to pack. So many in fact, there was no way I could fit them all in my bags or carry them in my arms. So I spread them all across the floor, stood back and said, "I'm going to have to figure out how to do the impossible."

Uno, due, tre

Returned from Italy Tuesday, woke up Wednesday, got a coffee at Starbucks. Took a sip, threw it out, went to the store and bought a Bialetti coffee maker, a pound of espresso, and a new cup for the occasion. I brewed a pot, steamed the milk, and now do believe I have found the missing link to my happiness.

Let go, let gelato

I didn't go inside the Vatican, but I went inside a nearby gelateria and I swear I found God.

Love actually

The truth is, I'm really not that hard to please. What's hard is finding a man who knows how to please me.

Fast train to Firenze

I'm not sure how long it used to take to be carried on horseback from Rome to Florence, or the time it took travelers on the first train. I know that even now, by rail it can be a 3-hour trip, but I'm on the fast track and will be there in just over one.

This theme of running, this theme of time-does it keep getting put before me, or am I looking for it? Am I brave like my mama says, strong like the man who loves me says? Or am I just bailing out when it gets to be too much, and avoiding the mess by changing the view? I know that the point of power is in the present, and that peace can be found in every step, but I can't seem to stop this urge to bust things apart, even when I'm trying to put them together.

I was on the phone with my mother the other day and she asked, “How is your trip?” I laughed and replied, “Well, I brought me with me.”

“And did you think you wouldn't?” she asked. And my answer was true.

“I guess I always think I won't.” I said. “I guess I always hope that when I go away, I will leave me behind.”

I'm not looking for happiness anymore because I have it. I'm not looking for a man anymore because I finally understand how limited they are, as I am limited. I'm not looking for success because I already gave birth to a magical child, and I'm not looking for love because it's already everywhere.

I'm not sure how many more steps I'll take before I reach my final “stazzione,” but while I'm on my way I want to keep boarding trains that go fast to places that are new. And I'm gonna try not to mind that when in Italy, unless I can say something correctly I would prefer not to speak at all, and that when I'm here, like when I'm home, I can cry for obvious reasons as well as reasons that can't be explained.

I just wish I could have more time to breath, more time at peace, more time to sleep and dream of owls, and more time to travel at different speeds. I just wish that when I went away, I could go away, so that when I took me with me... I could take me with me.

Osservazioni di Roma

There appears to be a lot less sex used in advertising here.

It seems that the men are less vulgar when looking at women on the streets than they are back home. It seems they are far more interested in what's behind a woman's eyes than in the shape of her behind.

The city, the country itself, is so ridiculously beautiful. I mean, it's not like you have to search for beauty here; it's everywhere. So if beauty is everywhere, maybe to the people of Italy, beauty is just a given. Maybe that's why it doesn't have to be manufactured, falsified, cheapened and worshiped.

Just a thought.

Osservazioni di Roma

It seems that a certain kind of woman in Rome in her 60's has a particular look. Died blonde hair, brown coat, brown slacks, brown knit hat and flat shoes; always carrying a heavy bag, cigarette in hand.

In Spain, people thought I was German, in Argentina, they thought I was Italian, and in Italy, they assume I'm English.

After walking to the Coliseum, I couldn't get in because there was a woman threatening to throw herself off. For one hour I sat and watched as they talked her down, and then I went inside.

In America, taking coffee seems like taking drugs. In Spain and Argentina, taking coffee seems like taking a break, and in Italy, taking coffee seems like taking preventive medicine.

I don't make eye-contact with the men here because at the moment, I am closed in that way. It's okay though-there are so many other things to keep my eyes on.

220 miles an hour to Rome

Two hundred and twenty miles an hour on my way to Rome, I am leaving all of them behind me. The ones that said things, did things, told lies and partial truths. Those that were unable, unwilling, but all willing... to take with them a piece of me.

Traveling far from home, I travel far from home. I stand outside the gates of my house and I see inside. Behind the doors, behind the curtains, under the beds and beneath the floors, I can see what's been hidden, and the things I only thought I'd thrown away.

Two hundred and twenty miles an hour on my way to Rome. I look to my left and see another life, and I remember the first time I ever stepped on foreign ground-how magical it all felt, and how long ago it all was. It was as if I had no idea there was a place on the other side of the world. I couldn't stop smiling then, just to hear the unfamiliar sound of a police siren, or see a traffic sign in a language I could not read.

I look to my left, out onto the Italian countryside, and feel the absence of that magic. And I miss it. I am at ease, at peace and in turmoil at the same time; a state of being that until now has seemed to define most of my life. Grateful for the solitude, sorrow for what is gone, pleased with the woman I've become, yet wishing I were were something else, something better, something more. Longing to feel what I felt in Madrid all those years ago; and always hoping to stumble upon the kind of love I once knew over the course of days almost three years ago.

Traveling far I travel far, and traveling fast I travel fast. All at once I want to leave it behind; my country, my city, my memories; and every undeserving man I gave my gifts to. All at once I want to leave behind me, and take hold of my own hand, and ride this train to Rome at 220 miles an hour until I arrive. I want to close the lids on my green eyes that a lover once kissed, and feel the instant warmth that is a constant because of my child. Then when it all slows down, I want to step off this train and into Rome-into the history and the beauty and the gifts of it all, and into the history and the beauty and the gifts of me.

Osservazioni di Milano

When someone back home refers to me as "Señora" it makes me feel old, but when someone here refers to me as "Signora," it makes me feel beautiful.

In flight tonight

I have blogged from New York, L.A., Buenos Aires and Barcelona-and if I decide to blog this coming week... it will be from Milan.

A slice of self

Tonight I walked quietly with two people from work, in what felt like solidarity and solitude. I could hear the clicking of my boots and feel the city through the sleeve of my coat. I saw a slice of moon and said out loud that it was a pretty one. A pretty moon, as if each night there is a different moon; not the same moon with different parts visible.

I remember a time when I felt born again, not in a God-like way, but in a life-like way. In a way that made walking down the street, drinking hot coffee, and listening to John Coltrane feel new. I remember when I wrote on this blog every little thing I thought, and every little thing I felt, because it was the only way to make a record of it; the only way to have a witness to what was taking place inside and around me.

I felt like a teenager again then, even though I was already grown, married, a mother, and divorced. Everything was loud and fast and unstoppable; passionate, confusing and awake. And I wrote on this blog every day, about the way things are and the way things aren't, and it served as proof that it all happened... just the way it all happened.

I know the slice of moon I saw tonight is the same full moon I've seen before, and I know that the whole self I see tonight is the same slice of self that I once was. And it seems to me that I'm just like the moon; sometimes whole, sometimes parts, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden; but always the same self, and always moving in solidarity and in solitude.