we squeezed lemon into lemoncello and water into wine with what little means we had going into this excursion of a lifetime. in many ways, that euro trip taught me who i was and also taught me all who i was not (yet). i so badly wanted to be older, wiser than i was then. i wanted to skip the steps in between and already be this cosmopolitan woman of my dreams and the only real thing i lived for- was the unparalleled feeling of being uncomfortable. because that meant i was really living.

The entropy in it all is hilarious, and cruel, and endless. And if you think about it too much, you’ll cry. You’ll lay in bed with your knees pulled to your chest and experience being on the brink of remembering something that will never transpire. It will drive you insane. An itch that will consequently never be satiated. And you have to turn your not being okay with it, into action. Because the reality is that you probably don’t have that hundred years you were told you’re entitled to. People you love will die, relationships will end, you will be irrevocably hurt and you will hurt others. You will be tainted and strained, humiliated and broken before you’re reborn and it will be maybe harder to swallow than this feeling.

But now that I’m a little

older

I can see that you were

what I wouldn’t see.

I think, maybe,

You were Paradise

with eyes.

And I was too busy missing tomorrow

and

waiting for yesterday.

You watch with fascination as the outer plastic shell of the suitcase begins to melt into a gooey pile of galactic waste and chuckle to yourself for how fucked up it all looks from your perspective. You think about the first time you said those three words and how he used to look at you like he wanted your gene pool for his babies. You recall feeling so untouchable in his arms when you were 23 and still kind of adorably stupid.

The way he drinks me in like a diver’s lips to its oxygen

swallowing life as slowly and soft as blue lines on the horizon

or the ones crinkling beneath his eyes when he smiles—

this is the stuff that kills me.

It’s these mornings above the Aegean—

whose forgiving waters sparkle with promise in late summer heat,

that pull on the prickly pleasures of a soul.

And when it’s finally time to go,

long legs and tan feet shuffle down a dirt road alone

while hands carry lemons on a path back to a place nobody knows.

I saw silk colors swirling and figures swaying, laughing faces, blue eyes, and black hands hitting keys hard and moving pieces coming to a high then a halt. A slow symphony of hums humming like waves lapping crisp and sharp and then falling back again. People clapped and hats tipped but we stood staring, tracing memories of fingertips on bare skin. I looked to my hands and they were long and slender and the shoes below them felt farther away than the moon and all the stars.

Your mind is racing as you throw all of your dirty valuables into your open 72-liter backpack and all of her shit into her bag, too. You look up and your best friend is rifling through his nightstand and has just picked up a handgun and a picture book.

“Woah what the Fuck you guys, what the fuck!” She yells, hands trembling she slowly looks around the room, surveying the dungeon you have found yourselves in the past three days.

“We need to get out of here as soon as fucking possible. Put that shit down and help me with the rest of her clothes!” You say.

Oftentimes these cancellations are a reaction to unconscious behavior, a politically insensitive musing, a concerning affiliation, or a dogmatic Tweet. Increasingly, the general public has become lightning fast to strike without pausing to examine the full context or intent of the individual’s comment, behavior, or photo. And not only does pause often lend context and clarity, but it also allows for the fact that at some point or another, we have all been guilty of stating opinion from an uneducated perspective- oftentimes regretting our words and wishing we had been more informed.

It was 2 o'clock in the morning. He was stumbling drunk on the beach with a beer in his hand, underneath those gorgeous Nicaraguan stars, kicking softly at the sand beneath his feet. Those dirty feet, bloody and cracked from dancing with me on broken glass barefoot all night at the bar in our little town. He wore nothing but boardshorts and his own sweat. Waves lapped at my numb ankles as I listened, quiet. Barely nineteen and full of that naive youthful exuberance, I giggled at first.. before realizing he was about to say something of value.

“You could use some new Janes,” Someone called. I turned my head to meet the voice and our eyes met. I stopped walking and stood there a few feet in front of his table.

Elsa and I were arm and arm. She looked over, snorted, and dropped my left arm.

“Good luck,” she said and continued walking towards our group gathered at the far side of the club. I followed her with my eyes for a moment, feeling abandoned. Then I shifted my attention back to the table.

“I like these heels. They’re perfectly fine heels.”

He looked absently over my shoulder at the stage I’d just come from.

“They distract from your performance,” He said plainly.

I sat there in the airport bar downing a strong Manhattan and experienced a cumbersome wave of numbing existentialism and an acknowledgment of my tendency to miss my appointments with life. I made a mental note to work on that when I returned home—whenever that would be. After two more glasses of poison and a most sobering phone call with my parents, I bit the bullet and dropped $800 on a new flight home. Because it's me, and it can never be easy and simple in these moments, the only flight going to California was for the next day, with a ten-hour layover in Manila, Philippines. So I raised my hands in the air, said fuck it, and gave in. And in giving credit where credit is deserved, I recognize the success of this journey can only be rightly attributed to the help of my friends, Valium and Benadryl PM.