Amazing Grace

Sandy gravel crunches as I shuffle to the center of the amphitheatre, accompanying my deep breaths. The sound makes me feel like I am being accompanied by history. In the breeze, centuries old voices whisper. I stand in their place.
Stone steps rise around me. They look down expectantly. They have seen this before. They know what comes next.
The sun is warm, but my fingertips are ice. I do not want to disappoint them. These worn grey spectators have witnessed more than any of the people privileged enough to take a seat and be a part of their story.
In this moment, faces stare blankly, waiting. I refuse eye contact and suck in as much air as I can. Shaking, my insides quivering with anxiety, fear, excitement.
I breathe in again, deeply, slowly, muttering disclaimers aloud while silently trying to chase the nerves, foreigners I wish would leave. They visit often, invading my sense of security and courage at the most inopportune time. In and out, I breathe again. In with the good, out with the bad.
I look into the sun behind my audience. Mother Nature’s spotlight, beautiful bright and blinding, obscures the faces of my audience. I can barely see them through her golden rays.
When Rick said, “Someone should sing,” he turned toward Caroline, “We need to hear what it would sound like!”
She refused, but the group became insistent, “We need to hear what it would sound like!”
My parents’ faces flashed like the scenes of a viewmaster. “I could sing,” I heard myself say.
“You sing?” They asked.
“I used to.”
“What songs do you know?”
Almost three years have passed since I felt the heat of stage lights. I haven’t practiced since; my voice isn’t in shape. On any other occasion these facts would have kept my mouth shut, but I know that if my parents were here, they would beam at the very thought of it.
I could barely remember my once vast repertoire, but there is one song I never forget and in minutes, I found myself being shuffled down to center stage, muttering disclaimers as I tried to stir up the courage to sing in this place.
This moment is not a personal showcase. My voice will not lure spectators. This place, its constant presence throughout time – that is the beauty here. No note will ever match the splendor of its history or the majesty of the Sicilian countryside serving as a backdrop.
I flood my lungs with air; drop my shoulders and becoming a part of the ancient Grecian chorus, I sing that one song that always comes to mind.
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.”

King of San Vito lo Capo

        My alarm startled me from my sleep at 5:43. I wasn’t sure how many hours of sleep that figured out to be because my time schedule was still off from travelling.
        A few minutes later, the hotel wake-up call came, by then I was wide awake. Something about seeing the sunrise in another world makes crawling out of a warm bed easier.
        As my bare feet slide onto the cold stone I wish I had brought my slippers. But as I make my way to the bathroom tip-toeing through puddles I retract the thought. The showers were nothing more than a curtain surrounding a faucet that hung from the wall and we had learned the hard way that our showers would flood the hotel room.
        From our room I can see that some light has already begun to creep into this part of the world and I dive into the first outfit I pull from my suitcase. I doubt I’ll be this awake at 5:45 tomorrow. I slip my feet into a pair of sandals and race down the two flights to the main lobby where Joy is waiting.
        I am impatient, and I don’t want to wait for late-comers. Sunrise lasts only moments. We leave quickly, with a few hesitant looks back for stragglers.
        There is no one. The town of San Vito lo Capo is silent as we make our way to the shore. As Joy scampers about with her camera, silently recording whatever seems worthy, I take a seat at a bench and dig my feet into the sand. The air is cool, and the sand is damp, a dark tan shade interrupted by the vibrance of my electric-pink painted toe nails.
        My camera is not equipped to capture the sunrise here, but then again, I don’t think any camera really is. So I sit, taking in the hues of pink and orange, purple and blue. As I breathe in the sweet salty ocean air, they melt together and fade as the sun itself takes its place as king of the Sicilian sky casting shadows of palm trees all around me.

The Wise Old Sicilian

      He stands proud on this hill, looking down.
      Golden, perhaps from the morning sun, he seems to glow. His streets wind up, down, left, right and back again. Curving like smiles and frowns, each road with the ability to choose a mood.
      The term “go straight” takes on new meaning here, for there is rarely a straight street. But, turn enough times, and déjà vu. All roads lead to Rome. Eventually the old man leads you back to where you came.
      Up above, a woman hangs laundry. White sheets and lace curtains drip drop down two stories; the sweet, fresh scent of her fabric softener flooding the area. From there she can see across the street and down onto a rooftop where a group of men are repairing the old clay tiles that are worn and grey from the sun. No one flinches at the beeping of toy-like cars that bump through steep and skinny streets.
      Cracked peach stucco walls rise up from cobblestone pathways. Each fissure a wrinkle of time like laugh lines, or worry lines. Wooden doors are worn. They stand demanding reverence, their wisdom growing with each grain of wood revealed by chipping paint.
      Castelbuono has seen much. Like a wise old Sicilian man.

Sto Bene

      A couple sits precariously at the edge of a stone wall high above the waters. The sound of the waves intensifies, booming as they stumble over each other. Then, just as quickly as it began, silence, and the waves return to their peaceful lapping of the shore.
      Indifferent to the sporadic volume changes of the waters, the couple laughs and smiles, undaunted by the fear of falling or the power of the ocean.
      Offshore two fishermen lay a net.
      The young woman laughs.
      A breeze takes the opportunity to relieve the heat of the sun.
      The younger of the two fishermen stretches over the boat to keep hold of the net.
      The couple laughs, facing each other, as the wind whips her hair.
      The waves settle into constant swishing; back and forth, back and forth.
      The current pulls the boat through the waters.
      Like a ringtone in a movie theatre, a phone call interrupts the moment. She falls silent.
      He kisses her. “Sto bene,” he says, and returns his phone to his pocket.

Sicily Day One: Friday March 13th

I couldn't even get to the pool this morning. The butterflies is my stomach left me uneasy and anxious.
Do I have everything I need? Clothes, underwear, shampoo, soap, toothbrush. The necessities.
Bandaids, Rolaids, ibuprofen, Benedryl, wet-naps, antibacterial, tide pen. The just-in-case items.
Notebooks, pens, pencils. The school items.
Alanna and I run to the store, I am in search of the perfect pens. They must be fine-tipped. It writes so cleanly, I am convinced the pen makes my writing better.
My suitcases are haphazardly packed. From corners of my room I've thrown in the necessities, the just-in-case items, and the school items. Shoes, socks, a different sweatshirt. I don't even have to organize them, I've packed so lightly that this basketball game of packing has been effective enough. I zip them, and grab my notebook with Kurtis' address and my favorite pen.

It's cold here in America. I quickly peel off my black leggings and swap them for a pair of dark blue skinny jeans that had been buried in one of the suitcases.
Better.
Alanna is ready first - nothing new.
I throw the rest of my fruit in a plastic bag with some water bottles and double check that we've cleaned enough.
With a deep breath and another glance in my room, I throw on my khaki trench, and hook my purse around the handle of my rolly-suitcase. Alanna and I let the door of the apartment shut behind us as we shuffle down the hallway and into the elevator.

We made the choice to walk to the other side of campus with our suitcases rolling behind us. My fingers were numb. When I pried them from the handles they were stuck and didn't want to move from their gripped position. I let the idea of warm Sicilia fill my mind. I just need to make it to the bus.

The class was waiting for us, gathered around their suitcases talking excitedly, giggling and taking pictures. Shortly after 11am we boarded the bus and headed for the University of Hartford, where we would pick up the people that would fill up the other half of the bus.

With their arrival packets of "What You Need to Know About Me" from each school were passed out. We read about each other, and admired self-portraits done by the painters and photographers of Hartford as they looked at some not-at-all-professional portrait pictures of our group. On both parts some were better than others and they were interesting to read, though I don't believe they aided in our knowledge of what each other was like.

Our bus was caught in traffic, and we were undoubtably going to be late to JFK. Murmurs of worry filled the bus, and students began pulling out their cell phones, eager to see if the flight was delayed.

It was.
A surge of relief.
Then just as quickly it was gone.
What about our connecting flight in Rome?
Rick - we don't call him Prof. Newton it doesn't suit him - soothed our fears, assuring us that flights go from Rome to Palermo all the time and we would simply be placed on the next flight. No problem.
Whew.



We sat in JFK for hours before boarding a later flight to Rome. At one point, Alanna, Caroline and I broke into our carry-ons and took over a wall of sinks in the ladies bathroom. We were washing our faces and redoing our make-up...and even washing our feet. But I'm sure it looked...curious...to anyone that just wandered in there to use a stall.
Some lucky ones slept through the entire red-eye flight. I did not.

On the plus side, Hunter stirred me as we flew over the Alps - I was in the center aisle - and I stood at the window in awe. They seemed never ending and majestic. All I could think was "This is only the flight...in a few hours, it gets even better."

Exhaustion...

...will eventually take over. For now, I'm awake.
It's still fairly early.
My eyes are starting to glaze over, and all I can see is fog that covers the roads as I stare out of a bus on my way to Kinsale.
But I'm not physically on a bus to Kinsale. I'm at my kitchen counter, which happens to be green like those faraway hills.
I've been researching for longer than my eyes can handle. All I want to do is take up residency in Ireland, and live in a place that fills my dreams. While I was there, I didn't dream of the roadways of America, though occasionally I thought of Fenway or the Garden. But I visit Ireland every night, and I have since I stepped off of that plane. Unfortunately I'm coming to the realization that I probably have a little more work to do in America before I can jet off to my dream country. A little more "real-world" experience.
By "real-world" I mean - real WORK experience.
Frustrating, but I figure it will be worth it.
I'll let you know when I figure out more. For now I'm going to go get back on that bus to Kinsale, maybe stop for a pint and some fish at Edward's while I'm there. Best fish ever, just sayin.

Back to Europe...

...soon enough. Or so the plans are going. Backpacking for the summer is definitely in my plans, and then...back to Eire.
I miss it so much. I know that I'll miss America while I'm there, but you only live once, and I know what I want.