Scene:
Walking along the water in Florence. Maya has spent the last couple hours with an old Florentine artist and a girl from Arizona.
[A couple hours into conversation.
Characters: Maya and artist]
“What is your name?”
“Maya.”
“Ah, like the Inca, Azteca…Some say they came from the stars”.
“Yes…” [insert joke about aliens]
“You’re one of those, you came from a flying saucer”.
I laughed. I usually feel that way. It has been somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster here in Cortona. Sorry for the random fragment of playwright-wannabe, the original journal entry was really lame. I sometimes wish I could just slap a piece of film from my head onto the computer so that you could see the memories the way I did. Anyway, my new home is at an artist collective, decorated with bright paintings and crazy sculptures. Dino studied medicine and I guess he decided he was finished with that field, so now he nurtures the organic and arts communities of Tuscany. We collaborated and named his hoe “Frank Zappa”. I don’t have much to say, as everything changes on a day to day basis. I was unhappy when the vegans were here, but I’m happy now, cleaning wine bottles while listening to the Stones, or watching people dance to tarantellas in Arezzo. It is time to leave though. Sorry Italy, of 89 cent box wines, expresso, and exceptionally forward young Italian men, but we must part soon. Jess, myself, and our new buddy from Bristol, Rachel, who is a female sheep, and an exceptionally edible piece of meat for mosquitos, are making a stop in Cinque Terre, where we will take over its beaches for a couple nights, then we all part our separate ways. Jess to Germany, myself to Prague, and Rachel will stay in Italy. I’m trying to get rid of my suitcase.
A literature pause.
So as a lot of my friends and family know, I was originally going to go to Chile to soak up the greatness of all the Southamerican writers I’m obsessed with. Obviously I’m no longer headed to South America. This is the new literature sketch of my travels:
I read One Hundred Years of Solitude through Spain and Italy (slow read, right? I slept more then I read whenever I had a moment to spare), and of course I absolutely loved it. García Márquez, I love you dearly. Now, as I prepare for Prague, I’ve started reading a novel by Milan Kundera (author of one of my favorite novels, The Unbearable Lightness of Being), a book given to me by a hostile vegan who hated it. I love Kundera. Every few pages I sigh to myself and say, “O, Milan!”
I don’t know what the remainder of my trip will look like, as I can’t think past Italy, but hey man. You just gotsta go with it. Nothing has been as expected. I’m nervous, surprised, pleased, disappointed, I ain’t got much control nah nah nah.
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