Cut to the bone; quick to the kill--a lot of sequins with an undercurrent of grunge.

Months ago, in the midst of summer, I had a vividly memorable conversation with a friend in the aisles of a grocery store. During that time and space the reality of this trip was still largely unborn, and my doubts and fears were growing with a weed-esque severity. I was shaky; I was unsure; I felt trepidation. The unknown is, perhaps, more daunting than anything we can touch or taste or feel.
And so. He began telling me of his time spent in Europe, and his gracefulness; his ease and energy-lit eyes calmed me. I was soothed and inspired. One concept he spoke fervently about has stuck with me like a second skin throughout my time abroad--and that was of embracing all the incredible, epic places I light eyes on as backdrops. He went on to explain that he felt that these landmarks and settings, glorious as they are in physical presence, are regarded far more richly when thought of as backdrops to the experiences you are having in the shadow of them.
I am explaining this poorly and crudely, but it has shaped the way I look at things and internalize my surroundings within these two months...and so I feel stirred to give it mention.
To paint somewhat of a visual, here is a glimmer of my encounter with the Eiffel Tower in light of this stream of thought. My initial glimpse of the Tower by night was sensual and stunning as expected, but beyond its gaudy radiance ripping through the darkness, I remember more, more, more. Meg and I were han solo that night, Katie opting to channel her inner Sleeping Beauty, and so us two remaining bodies were pulled like lightweight magnets to said beautiful structure. It quickened the beat of our hearts, and stilled our words. I have written of this already. But here is what was going on in the real, tangible flesh...here is what the Tour D'Eiffel served as such a breath-stopping backdrop to. We were layered in clothing; the air was laced with winter. We leaned up against a cool stone wall for ten or fifty minutes, I lost all conceivable track of time, and shared a bottle of rouge, sans glasses (as has become the pattern these last many weeks). Voices meshed all around us--teens getting rowdily drunk, lovers making out on the ground/on top of benches/in trees (this legendary French kissing obsession is not a cliche, it is dead accurate), vendors waving neon Tower keychains and sugared crepes in our faces...and so on. We eventually found ourselves tucked into the outdoor portion of a nearby cafe, our pale faces still littered with the myriad of light being emitted from the Eiffel. We sipped a single glass of wine each...we talked about life, about pain, about love...we observed the world of Paris weaving itself past with fascination and tirelessness. I slipped between sheets thankful that night.
It was something like that.
I have been fortunate. There have been others that stand out as wildly significant...backdrops embedded all across a continent. The city bus in London...a riverside bridge underneath the throes of traffic in Amsterdam...a concentration camp on the edges of Berlin...a grimy phone booth in the streets of Prague...a barren courtyard in Brussels...a lake underneath the Swiss Alps in Geveva...I could go on. There are vibrant, unforgettable memories attached to each of these settings, and they have become fragments of myself.
Our train leaving Rome for Venice is drawing ever nearer, so I am off to collect myself. I am amped for the city upon water.
Fare thees well,
R.B.