Wanderlust

Choosing The Perfect Purse For An Existential Crisis

| halfnutswilltravel

My purse is a tiny thing, by design, so that I don’t carry around heavy, unnecessary things.  Cash, cards, an EpiPen, and my cell phone is really all the weight I need dangling from either of my shoulders.  Give it a long enough strap so that I can wear cross body in crowded spaces, and I’m golden.  It’s not a fashionable choice here in Rome, but I’ve had years of practice shrugging off the eye rolls of the Trenderati.

20170629_123444.jpgBefore I embarked on this journey, I cleaned out the solid black Vera Bradley mini-hipster that has served me well for the last three years, and moved into my brand new Baggallini.  I found it on sale at AAA when I went to exchange currency.[1]  It is also compact, but has just enough room to fit my Nikon B700, in addition to the necessities.  It sounds Italian, and the blue and green stripes remind me of my favorite patio cushions from a few summers ago, and best of all – the shoulder strap is adjustable.  I’ve already sewn the strap back on to my Vera Bradley three times and I had my doubts it would make it through a busy summer of travel without another repair that I was unwilling to accommodate with space for needles and thread in my suitcase.

I began my purse-moving by sorting the contents of my black bag into piles on the kitchen table.  There was the obvious trash pile that contained old receipts and loose pieces of gum.  One of the many pros of having babies that turn into teenagers is that the gum I find is now, more often than not, un-chewed.  Then there was the pile of stuff that I needed to keep, but not in my purse, at least not for Italy.  There would be very little need for my Kohl’s card, I astutely observed.  The pile of things that made the cut included my emergency credit card, my super-duper emergency credit card, three ChapSticks, and a Benadryl itch relief stick.  There was a fourth pile – the pile of things to pray about.  Like, maybe I would need 47 bobby pins, a cough drop, and the rest of the gum that hadn’t fallen out of its pouch yet.  That pile, like so many things I spend prayers on, ended up in the kitchen garbage can.

I’d just reached the last of the three pockets in my black purse when my phone chimed with a new e-mail.  It was one of my oldest friends.  From somewhere on the underside of the planet, where she lives now, she’d just stumbled upon a data card with a slew of MelSerena.jpgpictures from our trip to Savannah and St. Augustine two years ago.  She thought I’d want to see all the pictures of us with drinks in our hand.

I remembered those photos, perhaps better than she did.  I smiled for a few of them, and gritted my teeth through a lot more.  Today I wouldn’t mind being selfied with a drink in my hand, but in 2015, I was still raw from a hank-williams.jpgbitter custody battle where every tiny thing I did was nitpicked and torn apart, used as evidence that I am an unfit parent.[2]  I didn’t want the pictures then, and they are bad memories now.  For me, anyway.  She seems to enjoy them.

I replied to her e-mail with a quick snapshot of the home made business card I’d just cleaned out of my purse.  It was from the night we happened into The Monk’s Vineyard and met Hank Williams. 

When we were kids, she got the silly notion in her head that I am a witch.  I never practiced the craft, but I am a very good manipulator of coincidence, so for almost three decades, I’ve let her believe it.  It was no surprise that she replied with her age old witch accusation.
I confided that I wish my witchy ways were useful for speaking Italian, because I would be spending the next few months speaking in Charades.

That’s when she told me the truest thing I have probably ever hated about myself.
MeleemailAnd there, maybe, is the thing I could not put my finger on.  Why I am here.  Or more specifically, why I am not at home with everything and everyone I know.  Rome could have just as easily been Istanbul, or Warsaw, or Beijing.  Maybe I’m here to prove in practice, not in feminist theory, that I actually am a capable human being.

But you know what?  At this particular time in history, when I look at my neighbors and try to guess which third of them supports fascism, racism, homophobia, class warfare, and corporate greed – or at the very least think that those things are a small price to pay to teach Democrats a lesson – I realize this is an experiment that cannot fail.  Maybe learning that we can depend on the kindness of strangers – even and especially globally – is what we all need more of.

 

So cheers to whatever I learn from this.  I mean, aside from how to use a Metro and discern real gelato from the touristy paste, of course.Bood Moon Toast

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________

[1] I’ve not been a AAA member very long.  Mike added me to his account a few years ago, and it has paid for itself just by letting me back into my car when I’ve locked myself on the wrong side of the door from my keys.  However, I just found out it’s much more than dummy insurance.  Did you know that they will exchange currency with no fee, and that they take your passport photos free of charge?  Also, it’s one of only two places you can go to get an international driver’s license, which is frighteningly free of any ability-based restriction or regulation.  Also, they sell car insurance and luggage.  Who knew?

[2] Spoiler alert:  Custody fights aren’t in anybody’s best interest unless a child is being abused.  Don’t do it.  Take it on the chin, learn to work with your ex and ignore anybody who was not instrumental in creating the children when they purport to represent what is in their best interest.

Nah-poli

| halfnutswilltravel

Despite its continued filthy shittyness, I’m afraid Napoli has lost some of her charm.  Maybe I was jaded by the bad arrival to our AirBnB, forcing us to change plans at 12:01am and find a hotel.  Maybe it is that so many of the decrepit, boarded up buildings are now bustling with American-tourist style shopping (handbags, high heels, profumo).  Or maybe it was only ever charming because I was here with my beloved and now I am not.  I mean, I love my Grown Ass Baby Cousin and I go to bed with my tummy hurting from both gluten bombing and laughing until our laugh is what keeps us laughing.  But there’s just something about holding hands with your partner with the anticipation of being jumped and knifed, or a world-ending caldera event lurking in the back of your mind.

Please don’t misunderstand me; this visit has been far from awful.  I got to meet new

20170621_145002[1]
Le cimetière des Fontanelle.   I wonder if they liked each other, or even knew each other in life.  Now they sit, whispering and listening together on this pillow for all eternity.
friends that already feel like old ones.  We have the good fortune to be visiting during Napoli’s annual pizza festival (see above gluten bombing).  AirBnB not only refunded my reservation fully, they are issuing a $100 credit to help offset the cost of the hotel I had to replace it with!  Today I got to see actual dead people.  And I do look forward to bringing the kids here in August.  But I can’t wait to get back to my apartment.

I am Rome sick.

Giorno 1

| halfnutswilltravel
12 giugno 2017
Lunedi
20170612_000006.jpg
One hour before landing in Frankfurt
I cleared customs in Germany, which was both very helpful and a little disappointing when upon collecting my bags in Rome I realized I had no long wait ahead of me, but would get no passport stamp from Italy.
Instead of waiting an hour for a customs official too preoccupied with his cell phone and cigarette to even look up and see if my face matched my passport like last year, I rolled my bag off the carousel and straight out into the throngs of waiting drivers.
If that horde wasn’t a metaphora per la vita, I’ve never seen one. An almost imaginary barrier held back the men calling over each other for a fare and just past the desperation, stood the wall of confident men who already have a name. I found the one holding mine on a sign and followed him to my air-conditioned car.
There’s a man at home holding my name, too, and I realize this is not a solo journey. I wouldn’t be here without him.  I’m not here without him.  He’s in mio coure and on mio mente.
20170612_165049I was working on hour 30 without sleep, so that I was able to locate a supermarket and will my legs to take me to it is all I need to call my arrival a success.   I shopped simple and had a rather crude caprese salad for dinner.  I’m happy to report that tomatoes still taste as magical as I remember.  I’d forgotten that even the black pepper in Europe is better than what is available at home.  My olive oil tastes like earth – the way it should.  Mozzarella di bufala is sold here the way I buy yarn at home – in 100 gram balls.
20170612_223440.jpgI did my dishes and fell into bed for a four hour nap.  I woke up around 10pm, made myself a snack of blackberries and Prosecco and played some music. I think I’m going to get used to this.
I think I already am.
Tomorrow, I conquer public transportation.

I Ain’t Scared 

| halfnutswilltravel

I’m waiting at my gate and can neither believe I am doing this, nor that I haven’t before.  I clearly see what stood in my way,  but why didn’t I side step it? 

I’ll be having lunch in Rome tomorrow, and every day after for the next eight weeks (give or take a few for my forays into other lands).

I’m coming home with two published articles and – so help me God – a book ready for the editor.  I don’t know what this means for my blogging frequency.   We’ll both find out together. 

Mike and I spent the last week remembering the things he needed to be briefed on before he becomes king of the castle for the summer.   On Wednesday,  he broached the delicate subject of my mortality. 

“If something happens, do you want your body sent home, or your ashes?”

I am amazed he had to ask.  “Have me cremated there and don’t you dare send me back to the States.”

So I think we’ve covered everything. 

Arrivederci.

Still Going

| halfnutswilltravel

I first noticed the creeping panic last Sunday.  This panic is like that.  It stays low and moves slowly and silently, hoping I won’t notice it until it’s in my chest and trying to crawl out my throat.  But ha!  I saw it coming.  Knowing it is there and keeping one eye trained to it keeps it low and slow.  At the pace it was moving, there was no way it was going to get to me before I left the ground and fly for Italy.  Because that’s what this panic is about – something screwing up my trip.  And panic can’t reach me in the air.  But last night it found my week spot and pounced.

I’m a dreamer – vivid, Technicolor dreams with sights, and sounds, and touch and the recent upgrade to include smells.  That’s what’s leading me to hang glide, after all.  And last night’s submission to the dream catalogue was a doozy.

See, there’s this doomsday cult that rigged a nuclear blast right here in my neighborhood laboratorythat’s been counting down for five years.  FIVE YEARS!  The story line felt lifted from that long-gone TV show, Alias, but the bubbling blue liquid that was going to be dropped into the bubbling purple liquid causing a series of – I don’t know, marbles to roll down a chute and push the clearly marked BOOM button? – looked like something out of Dexter’s Laboratory.  Skip the heart thumping drama that ensued and you find me, with my family, in a prone position not a quarter of a mile from the blast, basking in the light and heat and wind, waiting to be turned to dust.  Except for that last part, it was a surprisingly pleasant feeling.

And then we didn’t die.  We got up, walked around, and wondered why my face and neck had been burned purple while everyone else appeared ok.  Obviously, we were going to die a slow death from radiation poisoning.  But for the time being, we felt fine and I concluded the radiation caused a reaction between the minerals in my face powder and the oils in my skin and had essentially tattooed me.  Great.  Now I’ll be stared at in Italy.  Because that was my biggest concern.  A bomb was just detonated that was supposed to destroy the planet and when it didn’t, I’m still singularly focused on getting to Italy.  But no.  Air travel is shut down.  All air travel.  Around the whole world.  Mike isn’t so distraught because there are three boys sleeping on our couch down stairs and they’re going to want pancakes when they wake up.  Pancakes.  That’s how I know I’m not sleeping anymore, the world is no more irradiated than it was last night, and I am still going to Italy.

T minus thirteen days.

Wild Capers

| halfnutswilltravel

TallGirl’s friend broke my heart.

“I think I’m too old to try new things. ”  She is 22.  She was talking about butternut squash.

Maybe I was particularly sensitive to the sentiment because I’d recently had an argument with a travel article titled 30 Places to Visit Before You Are 30.  If beer-bellies can yell at TV sports, dark-rims can raise their voices to a magazine.  Only fair.  I am post-30, and I can totally justify skipping Milan because I don’t own the wardrobe befitting their sidewalks.  Besides, they have a Starbucks,  so why bother?  It’s practically Parsippany, now isn’t it?  But do they mean to tell me Venice has nothing to offer now that the bloom is off my flower?  At my age, is it so hard to believe that I might appreciate the history of Budapest a little more than I would have twenty years ago when my biggest struggle was keeping up with a scrunchy?  Just kidding.  Twenty years ago, I had a toddler and my first broken marriage to navigate.  I will concede this article wasn’t written for me, or people like me at that age.  Still, I think it was a little short-sighted to write a travel article that specifically excludes me, and people like me now, who – precisely because of age, have the time and disposable income to visit the boutique hotels being shilled in the glossy pages of this magazine.  But that’s just me.

Through middle and high school, TallGirl’s friend was a frequent visitor to our dinner table.  Scratch that.  She wasn’t a visitor.  She was family; there was always a chair for her.  Without fail, every single meal, she ate something for the first time.  When we knew she was coming, it became a game of mine to guess, while I was cooking, what would follow her, I’ve never had declaration.  Sausage, chocolate chip pancakes, pork chops, broccoli with cheese.  We aren’t talking exotic fare, here.  After graduation, they chose different paths, and she is now a vestigial daughter, visiting only once or twice a year.  We miss her, and I’d forgotten her sheltered culinary life.  That she’d never had butternut squash before was only surprising in that I hadn’t even considered it before dinner was served.

But here’s my confession.  I have passed the halfway mark in my forty-second year of life and last night, I ate capers for the first time.  Ever.  I was aware of capers.  My first knowledge of them came from Heartburn, by Nora Ephron.  I read it about two decades ago, during those tumultuous, family breaking years when apparently I should have been traipsing the globe instead of potty training my beautiful daughter.  Between you and me, I made the wiser choice.  My life is rich beyond measure because she is in it, and hers is measurably improved by being potty trained.  You’re welcome, BooBoo.

Nora Ephron has been accused for years of steering women wrong by romanticizing the troubling character flaws of both women and their male counterparts in her romantic comedies.  Forget that.  Neuroses are funny to everyone (save for those closely related to the afflicted, and to a lesser extent, the afflicted themselves), and it is exceedingly difficult to move a plot along if everyone in the story behaves rationally.  She did what she had to do as a writer, and I, for one, admire both her chops and the battles she fought to be allowed to flex them.  Where I take issue with her though, God rest her soul, is the terrible advice she gave in Heartburn.  “…The truth is that any dish that tastes good with capers in it tastes even better with capers not in it.”

Living in the homogeneous suburbs of the south-east, it’s not like I had to go out of my way to avoid capers.  They were always something that existed in the world but that I would likely never try, not unlike puffer fish or haggis.  And equally, I assumed I wasn’t missing anything special; possibly, I was saving my own life by not trying them.

By the laws established by the governing body of dieters everywhere, I think I am required to tell you that I am starting the Whole30 Program.  I am probably breaking some cardinal rule by not posting Insta pictures of every meal, or talking incessantly about what I am obsessing about eating, or not eating, next.  But that’s just not who I am.  I am only telling you this now because I have a cookbook that tells me exactly what to make to stay compliant and last night’s dinner involved capers.  I considered leaving them out because Nora Ephron didn’t like them.  The ghost of Nora Ephron wasn’t even invited to dinner, so is that nuts, or what?

Nuts, by the way, are allowed on the Whole 30, but not a wise nutritional choice.  Now you know.

And you know what?  I loved them.  I loved them so much that I want to invite TallGirl’s friend over for dinner, even though TallGirl is still away at school, and make her eat them with me.

wildcapers
Oh, the capers these walls have seen!

Last spring I was in Rome.  I don’t know if that is a city on that stupid 30 Before 30 list, but I can tell you, no matter how old you are, get there.  Our apartment backed up to the Aurelian Walls, and there were lush, green cascades of vegetation with pretty, wispy, white flowers growing freely from the cracks in the ancient brick.  I asked a local what they were, and she thought a moment as she consulted her English vocabulary.  More like a question of her own than an answer to mine, she said, “Wild capers?”

Because of the way she wrinkled her nose when she said it, and because of my Ephron association with the little beasts, I agreed with her that yes, those must be wild capers.  I probably even wrinkled my own nose in solidarity.

 

I consider myself to be adventurous, but just like TallGirl’s friend, even I sometimes forego new experiences due to preconceived notions, or have those intrusive thoughts that I might be too told to try a new thing.  I’ll try harder to recognize them, and nip them in the bud.

We are never too old for wild capers.

As a cautionary side, Whole30 was a terrible time to try capers.  They have the same effect on my breath as a pickled garlic-onion might, and gum – all gum – is forbidden.  If I accidentally breathe on you this month, I apologize in advance.

 

 

Seven Weeks

| halfnutswilltravel

20160327_135647Forty-nine days from now, right now, at exactly this time, Central European Time, I will be referring to my exhaustion as jet lag.  I will be completely moved in to my new apartment, the first place I will ever live without my parents, my spouses, or my children.  I will have unpacked my two sundresses, one pair of shorts, a tee shirt, and eight sets of underwear into my dresser.  My Italian dresser.  I will have stroked my Italian kitchen counter, bounced from my Italian couch, to my Italian chair, and decided which corner will become my Italian writing corner, where I will plug my American laptop into an electricity converter.

I will not have eaten lunch, unless it is served in the air between Frankfurt and Rome.  My body will say it is just after 2pm, but my Italian wall clock will say it is a quarter past 8.  I won’t grocery shop until the next morning, so I will leave my apartment, walk across the street, through Vatican City, using the whole of the tiny, holy country as my short cut to my favorite trattoria, Perdincibacco for a light dinner of Caprese salad and a bottle of their house red.  If I’m lucky, Massimillano’s dog, the adorable chocolate lab puppy that stole my heart last year, will have grown into his host job and greet me as if I never left.

Or maybe he won’t.  I don’t yet know the temperament of Italian labs, but American ones tend to greet people with the same excitement, no matter how long they’ve been gone.

I will cork what’s left of my wine and carry it with me.  The tunnel on Via di Porta Cavallegri is always dark, but since the sun will be set by then, I won’t have to squint when I pop out the other side.  A couple of blocks ahead, I will descend the steep, piss-smelling steps to the Tiber River and in a most American fashion, I will lift my wine in a toast to Summer, 2017, and drink straight from the bottle.

I can’t wait to find out what comes next.

Michael Must Love Me

| halfnutswilltravel

On my first full day home from Mexico, Michael slid a folded piece of paper across the lunch table to me.

“What’s this?”

“You are leaving for Rome in about sixty days,” he said.

Sixty days. Porca puttana!  My sabbatical just became a little more real to me.  I opened the paper he gave me.  “What is this?” I ask him again.

“Well, I was thinking,” his own excitement was mostly contained, but a little bit was leaking around the edges.  “You might want to see a show while you’re in Italy.”

“I am seeing a show.  Unless I sell my U2 ticket…” I trail off.

“Don’t sell it.  You should stay and see it.”

“But if I sell it, I can leave Rome earlier, and have more days to do something else before I go to Budapest.”  Who is the person sitting inside my body, saying these things?  I don’t go to Budapest.  I don’t go to Rome.  I don’t leave home for two months to go be alone in a foreign land.  This isn’t me.  

But I know that isn’t true.  This is me.  For the first time.  Out loud.  This is me.

“I think you should stay and see them.”  He’s been nothing but encouraging.  “But I thought you could see another show, so I looked something up.”

He took the paper from my hand and explained it to me.  It was a list of dates in July and August, each beside a venue and city in Italy.  On the bottom half of the page was a printed map labeled with each city from the list.

Again, I asked, “What is this?”

“Francesco Renga.  It looks like his shows peaked about three years ago, but he’s starting a new tour this summer.  This is a list and map of his shows.”

My heart skipped and my lips cracked from smiling.  “You found my boyfriend?”

I was delighted!

francesco renga
I want to pet his beard and get my fingers stuck in his curls.

I discovered Renga last spring.  His song, Guardami Amore, was the only Italian song mixed in with the American pop hits from the 80’s and 90’s playing in every restaurant or store we visited.  The melody and the voice became recognizable to me and soon I was madly in love with the Stranger With The Voice, as I began calling him.

On our last morning, we stopped into a cafe for our last good cup of coffee, and they were using YouTube for their music services.  For the first time, I got to lay my eyes on the handsome face that had been singing to me our whole trip.  For Christmas, Michael bought me two of his CD’s.  My infatuation with Francesco Renga clearly inspires him, too.

I’m having so much fun getting to know this person who jumps on airplanes and flings herself far and wide.  I could not do it without such a supportive partner.  For that, I am forever thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

Fat, Pink People

| halfnutswilltravel

Christians are told to consider the lilies; Tibetians, the lotus.  Californians have taken it upon themselves to contemplate their bellybuttons.  Achieving inner peace is a personal journey and today I am centering my shanti in this one hope:  get home before I run out of patience.

Parnassus was not all I had romanticized.  It is large, but dinky and is suffering from an identity disorder.  Beneath its Greek name lies an Egyptian lobby, a mid-evil castle water park, a French and Italian restaurant, and for no obvious reason but to disorient, a pagoda that is maybe supposed to look Japanese.  Tourists are amply warned against leaving the property due to high crime levels in the spaces between other such resorts.  The green band that the front desk attendant snapped on my wrist felt less like a pass to all that this all-inclusive resort entitles me and more like a wildlife tag.  Should I escape and be found, the game warden will know where to return me.

After an interminable day of flight cancellations, a two hour wait in line to check in was not what I felt I needed, but the travel Gods thought otherwise.  Once inside my room, I took in my panoramic view of nicer looking hotels across an expanse of brownish water and knew, in the way that you wake up beside the pool and before you move a muscle, know that you have a blistering sunburn, what purpose this unexpected leg of my journey was to provide.  Cancun was a step down unit – a harsh one – intended to ease my transition from the Elysian jungle of Tulum to the real world.  This is where I would have to learn how to sleep again without the Caribbean wind on my body, or the geckos screaming me lullabies.  That still, gross water beneath my balcony was surely the River Styx.  I saw the corpse of my last week float by, I am positive.

Physically, but not mentally exhausted, I went on a self-guided people watching tour around the Parnassus property.  A day earlier, I was cautiously watching the ground so as to not step on a tarantula and last night I was just hoping to avoid anyone who might have honeymooned in Myrtle Beach – or worse, wanted to.  It was then, watching fat, pink children running amok and afar from their fat, pink parents that I realized Cancun is every preconceived notion I’d ever had about Mexico.  It isn’t the natives who turn me off, it’s the tourists who will go home and, with a fist full of chili flavored Fritos crumbs flying out of their mouths, brag to their jealous, homebound friends about their trip to Mexico.  They will, of course, have never actually seen Mexico; their resort made sure of it.  Due to work or retirement those people may have relocated to places they look down upon, like North Carolina or Tennessee, but make no mistake, they hail from Ohio and other places where snow turns black as it is falling from the sky.

I found a Mexican restaurant inside of Parnassus, but not a real one. The service was five-star, but the food itself was…well, it doesn’t matter.  Their clientele liked it; that says enough.  I ordered a margarita that, between the two dollar Mezcal and some weapons grade chemicalized mixer tasted an awful lot like Pine Sol.  In hindsight, my ordering the shrimp ceviche could have stemmed from some deep, suicidal thoughts so early in their formation that I wouldn’t be able to identify and call out to them until hours later, when I was awakened by the travel Gods handing me over to Montezuma.

With next to no sleep, I was picked up by the complimentary shuttle at 5:30 this morning for a 9:00 am flight that, at that time, had already been delayed beyond my connector.  The first class seat that I was supposed to have flying directly into Raleigh yesterday might as well have been a community college credit in ski-lift operations.  That is to say, it did not transfer to Miami.  Did the Gods not deem me enlightened yet?  Was there more to this epic?

Yes.  There was the fat, pink toddler screaming the scream of a thousand scorpion stings to the bum standing in line behind me as I waited for an available ticketing agent to fix my new problem.  I suspect the child wasn’t suffering from diaper rash so much as he was protesting a Mummy who was late with his breakfast Twinkie.  It could have been a conditioned response to any number of shitty parenting practices.

I believed my ticket agent was doing me a kindness when she squeezed me in on the 7am flight to Miami.  What I did not know at the time was that I would be sitting six rows from the back of an airplane that smelled of piss, or that the very same toddler would find new reasons to scream all the way to Miami.  That is not a happy child.

I found my window seat and evicted the interloper already in residence.  Soon, I was joined by my seatmate; a dead ringer for Kyle Chandler.  My brain argued with my eyes that it could not possible have been Kyle Chandler because Kyle Chandler would not be flying in the back of an airplane that smells like a nursing home.  Also, there is no reason for Kyle Chandler to possess the raspberry colored passport of a citizen of Spain, either.  This man was gripping his in his teeth while he stowed his carryon in the overhead bin.
The man who was not Kyle Chandler was congenial, with a faint and lovely accent.  He placed a wide brimmed hat on the seat between us and with a lopsided smile said, “I hope you don’t mind.  I bought a seat for my bolero.”
An intellectual and flirty conversation with a foreign man might be exactly what would turn the whole, clunky morning around.  Our plane had a long taxi before lining itself up on the run way to wait.  As soon as we started our run, not Kyle Chandler gave me a look I couldn’t read and said, “I’m sorry.”

“No worries.” I smiled back, but I didn’t understand why he was apologizing.  Did he fart?

As soon as our wheels were off the ground, not Kyle Chandler began having a panic attack that did not end until we were back on the ground.  The mother in me wanted to hold his hand and stroke the back of his neck and tell him he would be ok.  Or was that the lover in me?  I still have to be very careful about who I let encourage physical contact sometimes.  Though I know the Spanish to be a huggy people with few boundaries and virtually no external personal space, I could not bring myself to do anything but sit quietly and pretend it was normal that a grown stranger was twitching, sobbing, and Lamaze breathing beside me.  If I could not help, the least I could do would be to not make it any weirder with eye contact or platitudes that may not translate, anyway.

I am going home today to a place the citizens of Midwestern towns always viewed the way I have Cancun.  On the ground, the fat, pink people dispersed and blended into the crowd of old, brown people, and I began my long walk to gate D60 to wait five hours for my final flight of this odyssey.  Bienvenedos a Miami.