I'll admit it, I'm an idealist on so many levels, i found 2 wonderful witty weird nerd boys who I'm going to visit in Switzerland.
Everything is always too good to be true, I privately decided that were all going to fall in love and write math theorums together and sip wine cuddled on a Swiss fur rug by the fire. I am going to live in Switzerland until we get into a big fight because boy1 wants to travel again, it's itching him, boy2 agrees to join and I run into the white Swiss world of fairy lights and snow and sob because they want to leave me, and they will try to tell me it's not me, it's the World, but I refuse to be consoled and throw together my things and stumble to the train station, sniffling and hot with distress.
There I warm myself in a cafe and consider my options. I bite my nails despite having just painted them a passionate maroon. My hair is hot mess and my cheeks glow with my Scottish ancestry. I look at the train schedule, choose the next train for Rome which leaves in twenty minutes. Someone has left War and Peace in English in annoverhead compartment. I immerse myself in it dying or long trip, allowing for an old French woman to briefly fuss over me and feed me tomatoes she swears she doesn't want from her lunch sack.
Upon arrival, a hairy Italian man addresses me in his fluid tongue. I shake my curls back and forth in dissent and he continues to follow me. Unnerved, I go to the station bathroom for half an hour and play Jumbaline Lite on my iPod, waiting for him to leave.
I move with the crowd, stringlessly meandering, looking for a place of rest, the evening has swooped in with a grace accented by the tall stone buildings. I sit in a cafe, find wifi, go on a long adventure in order to find my hostel. Now I'm hungry, all I've had is Brie and wine from the morning and the French tomatoes. Finally, I find it.
The receptionist originates from Berlin, and we bond over the city we love. I clump into the dorm, overdressed in my hiking boots, and roll under the scratchy cheap covers, emotionally drained.
I wake up the next morning late, and take a quick gander at the lounge. No one there. Time to find food.
I assemble a more weather appropiate outfit and enter the beautiful city. I've missed the sun. The language is smooth, almost cheesy romantic. The women are gorgeous. I follow the sun, eager to absorb the rays. They take me to a vegetarian cafe, I order salad and rice and tea and who should be sitting there but my wonderful Brazilian friend I had met months ago in Prague. She remembers my name, but I don't remember hers. She invites me to a party this evening.
In my room sits a thin, almost feminine British boy, his longish hair is tucked behind his ears and he's sweet and disconcertingly attractive. We chat and agree to do laundry together. He speaks a little Italian and oblige listening to his accent. We trade stories as the warm washing machines whirr contentedly, framing our friendly banter. An older pretty itlaian man joins us, and I ask my friend if he thinks the man is cute. One of my favorite tests, it's a win win.
He shrugs, mouse-brain hair gliding around his thin face. Dammit, he's going to avoid the question, alright, I'll get him later.
We meet my the girl at her apartment, she looks fabulous and I tug at my homemade high waisted skirt. We make our way around, it's a going away party for a friend, I drink just enough to maintain my wit but boost my flirting. Others are not so fortunate, I help a drunken girl to the subway, she's dark and her hair is elaborately braided, she kisses me thanks and I think brtish boy gets jealous. We return to the party and I wake up on the floor, shivering under a couple of towels we tried to use as blankets. I crawl into bed with a group of noisy sleepers and fall back to sleep, warmed.
It could happen.
