25 September 2010

stranger in a strange land

You know what I realized yesterday? During the span of five days, I was in five different countries. I was still technically in Croatia during the wee hours of Saturday, then the rest of Saturday was spent in Italy, then I flew to Spain and spent a couple of days there, and after that I flew to Uruguay and Argentina on Wednesday. How insane is that?

It still hasn't really hit me that I'm here. I've been walking up and down the streets, talking to people, taking the Subte (subway) and buses, but I don't feel different.

I miss Italy much more than I would have expected. I miss the comfort of being able to speak the language easily- Spanish isn't coming to me as readily as I would have hoped. Last night I got a tiny Italy fix when I met an Italian guy in the lobby of my hostel. I was dubious at first, but then we spoke a little and he told me that my Italian accent was perfect and beautiful. . . like my eyes- and I knew he was definitely a true Italian. He went on to tell me that my eyes gave him life, and kissed my hand, and said a bunch of other stuff I don't remember, and the Brazilian guys around him were all wide-eyed in the presence of a master romancer.

When it came time for him to leave, he knelt, told me he loved me, and explained to the others that when you see something beautiful, you have to say it. He pretended to take his heart out of his chest and handed it to me, telling me that he didn't need it, and my eyes gave him life. Then he took my hand and went in for what I thought was a side kiss. It was a corner of the mouth kiss, followed by an actual on-the-lips kiss, which I pulled back from red-faced. Then he gave me some nonsense about my lips being sweet and perfect and took off into the night. Typical Italian man. And I miss that.

Found a man in my bed early this morning when I got back from the party at the other hostel last night. I'm very confused about that for so many reasons- if one of the Chicago-area girls staying in our 4-bed, all-girls room brought him home, why wasn't he in her bed? Why did he make a sad attempt to make the bed which actually looked nothing like a made bed when he was done? Was he really actor Michael Cera, as he appeared to be? Why are the Chicago girls acting like nothing happened instead of explaining and potentially apologizing? Why did the maid come by my room and do about as good a job of making my bed as Michael Cera? I think I'm gonna ask for new sheets.

No comments: