Goodbye Australia, Hello Europe

Truth be told, I had to leave australia or else I'd just stay there forever. I *had* to leave. My body was freaking out, my nerves were at their wits end. I couldn't look people in the eye during conversations because I was daydreaming about other places. I had to leave.

I hate saying goodbye, and the few hours i spent in the Sydney International Airport were filled with quick rushes to the bathroom where i would splash my face with water and tell myself to snap out of it. Because there's so much world to see. And besides, I had to leave. It was obvious.

In sum, Australia was an interesting time for me. More than anything, I think it was spent more on personal growth than on the actual "poetry" aspect, if you want to look at it from a strictly research standpoint. But I think the personal aspect of this project shouldn't be overlooked. As Ginny once told me, the fellowship picks the person, not just the project. And besides, pain, suffering, heartbreak, homesickness, weakness, loneliness- these are all tools of a poet. We love having our hearts smashed, our brains twisted, our capacity of seeing the world and faith in humanity altered immensely. It makes for good poetry. Right?

I had lunch in Sydney. Dinner in Singapore. Best of all, I got to see the stars over Afghanistan. OK, I'm not 100% sure we were exactly over Afghanistan, but according to that map thing on the plane, the stars came out right when we crossed into Afghanistan. It was beautiful, and it reminded me of something I thought about when I was first bitten by the travel bug: people are incredible because they can survive even the worst situations. I felt so much love and sadness for those people below, whose lives were being ruined by the wrecklessness of men in power. I wanted to send a big note down to all of them "The stars are the same in my country too." I don't know why, but I always thought the night sky would be different there. Ignorant me.

We arrived in Rome from the East, with the rising sun. Literally. As the plane touched down on familiar Mediterrainian territory, the sun peaked over the jagged skyline a burning orange. I stepped off the plane and shivered, unaccustomed to typical european weather patterns after being in the southern hemisphere for so long.

I've been to Rome before, and I have to admit, I've never been a fan. I preferred southern coastal cities, I told myself, away from the touristy crowded streets. But this morning, I got to see a side to Rome that few get to experience. I think travelling to a city by oneself really changes the way one sees the city. Particularly true in Rome's case, especially when I arrived before Rome was awake.

Wandering around Rome at 10am is like being handed a key to someone else's dream. Except you get to stay awake during the experience. Narrow winding streets, the only sound is my shoes on the cobblestones, the sun still babyish and soft, just lightly touching the city as if she were saying "Ok, sleep for just 10 more minutes." Getting lost in the labyrinth like streets in those early morning hours was an experience in itself. Rome is just familiar enough that as soon as I feel lost, I turn a corner and a memory is brought back to life. I had gelato there once. I bought a pair of shoes at that store. We drank a bottle of wine and danced in the middle of the alleyway, right there. And then, poof! again, I am back here- an outsider, alone and slightly lost.

I sat down at a cafe at the pantheon, something I never would have done had it been mid-day. But the tables were set and the waiters looked bored and I was famished. So I had breakfast in Rome. I sipped my cappuccino, and watched Rome stir awake. Gradually, the Piazza grew more and more crowded, the streets became louder, singing italian and churchbells. The sound of vespas whizzing past and cars honking angrily with a beautiful frantic mess of languages strewn in.

It's funny, I thought, as I picked and poked my way through those streets, in an obvious memory-induced/jet lagged haze, how can I feel so at home in a city where I've never lived, particularly when I don't speak the language?

But it's true. Coming to Europe was like coming back home. But not Pennsylvania home. Southern Europe home.

And so I plan to use this week to regroup, to adjust to the completely mind-boggling time change (it's 3pm right now, and i'm exhausted... i couldn't even tell you WHAT time it is in my brain.) and of course, to finally record those tracks I've been talking about recording for the past two months. I really would like to write up a CD to sell at poetry readings. It would be good for extra pocket cash, not to mention publicity.

As I wandered back to the hotel (well ok, i got really REALLY lost and eventually called a cab... but hey, I tried...) I came across an entire museum dedicated to Byron and Shelly. You know, the poets. And it makes sense really, that I would choose a country like Italy as my entry into Europe, especially on a trip like this one. Because how can you walk through the incredibly diverse towns of this land, and not be inspired? The story of land, this one in particular, haunts the streets and the people. It seeps into the window panes, gets tangled in telephone wires, mixes with the wine. And you can't help but take it in.