He never calls. In fact, he had never called me on this phone ever – the one I’ve had since I changed my phone number way back when. I actually checked. Scoured online records to be sure. My father had not called me in almost two years.

So when he called the day after Christmas, I was surprised and delighted. I was not suspicious, because it’s not in my nature to be. It’s in my nature to be happy when someone calls. To love being remembered. Do you know there’s nothing that scares me more than being forgotten? I’d rather be resented, or even hated, than never thought of at all.

When he called, he was upbeat; this is not common. He wanted to talk about Christmas. I hadn’t opened his present yet, I told him, we were celebrating a bit late this year. I would call him on Saturday. But on Saturday, he didn’t pick up; this, on the other hand, is very common.

When I got his text on New Year’s Eve I was confused, but not because of the fever or the painkillers. The man hasn’t mastered the fine points of voicemail and he’d suddenly learned to send text messages? Still, I thought, This is good. He’s reaching out! To me! I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and pressed the green button.

Dad: Did mom accept my peace offering or not

And all at once, by the glow of my cell phone, everything was illuminated. Calling me on Christmas was not about me. Sending me a Christmas present for the first time in five years was not about me. It was a smokescreen. A gift-wrapped Trojan Horse to gain access to my mother.

Me: Yes, she did. She’s sending you a thank-you note.

But then, I was wide awake, spurred up and out of bed, my skin stinging from the shock of cold and the pain of fever. And I was filled with ugliness and rage. Hurt, anger, malice. I paced between my bedroom and the kitchen, flinging insults into the darkness, hurting him in secret. I pictured him obsessing over her, buying that CD – one she won’t have any reason to listen to, one that reaches back years, to my early childhood, when they may actually have been happily married. And I wanted to scream at him to fucking let it go. She doesn’t think about you!

Me: Please don’t use me to get to Mom.

Plaintive and simple, as though I hadn’t asked him a dozen times before. As though this time he was going to keep his promise. I clicked the phone to silent, dug my toes into the carpet and threw it. I heard the crack of the battery as it hit somewhere in the dining room, knew I’d be gathering up the pieces in the morning. I ground my back molars together and went back to my room. This time, I thought, when he calls, I’m really going to let him have it.

But of course, he never did. Because he never calls.

It started early in the evening, while I was digging through the closet for some New Year’s finery. I noticed that my back hurt. Ooh, and my shoulders. And my knees and wrists and…

An hour later, I was sitting on the sofa, a thermometer shoved in my mouth, when Jen called to nail down our reveling plans. I suggested we play it by ear.

“I kind of have a bit of a fever.”

“How much of a bit?”

“Um, a hundred? And one. Point four.”

“Heather! That’s a real fever.”

“I know, I know. But I think it’s going down. I’m going to rally!”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

And no, no I wasn’t. I spent my New Year’s Eve curled up in the fetal position, watching a Law & Order marathon. I didn’t even make it to midnight. Hell, I didn’t make it to 10. There was no champagne, no midnight kissin’ and no drunk texting. Except for the one I got from my dad, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, I should be back to regular posting in a few days, after my brain cools down and I’ve relinquished my reign as the Mucous Queen. Hopefully, before it becomes necessary to be surgically removed from my couch.

I’m not really one for making New Year’s resolutions.

It seems to work better for me to recognize – at whatever point during the year – that something needs changing, then sit on my ass until the problem gets bad enough that I’m forced into action. I like to think I’m waiting until I’m emotionally ready to effect change. Whatever that means, it never seems to fall on the first of January.

Like, it’s not at the end of December when I become concerned that I look like a fat, segmented insect in a bikini. That shiny little ray of inspiration usually dawns on me in March or April. And in case there was some question over just how resolute my resolutions are, I have the same pupae in a bikini feeling every single spring. Me, I lack follow-through.

Except, notably, on the subject of men. And who knows where that willpower came from?

Anyhow, I am very seriously considering adopting a New Year’s resolution – just for the sake of being a joiner. To see if I can hack it. In the meantime, what are some of yours? You know, in case it comes down to the wire and I have to borrow one.

“I will have you know that if you change your relationship status on Facebook before telling ME, I will kill your cat.”

“Gruesome! And, don’t worry, I’m not changing my status.”

“I’m not saying you have to call me or anything. But the time stamp on the email had better be a solid minute before you post it on Facebook…”

“You’d really kill my cat?

“Well, I’d have to come to Dallas to do it, so it’d be a win for you that way.”

“You’re sick. And I love it.”

It’s hard to believe that tomorrow is Christmas, when we spent this afternoon walking around in the 60-degree weather, peeling off layers, until I was bare-shouldered in the December sun. This year, I will be writing my thank-you notes to Santa for the gift of global warming.

The Texas half of my family won’t actually be celebrating Baby J’s birthday until the 29th, but for those of you who don’t have to wait for little sisters in Uhauls to arrive, I wish you a very merry Christmas. May Santa bring you unseasonably warm weather.

(For those of you in the UK, you can read a bit about my last year’s Christmas in the December issue of Cosmo. I haven’t been able to get my hands on one, but let me know if you see it!)

Happy holiday!

For months he’d been saying it was inevitable. We were going to hook up.

“No way,” I’d said. “Our friendship would implode.” There were illustrative hand-gestures and sound effects.

“Not necessarily.”

“Yes, necessarily.”

We’d go round and round and then, finally, he’d concede that I was right. If we hooked up, he couldn’t tell me the sordid details of all his other hook-ups. And those were some of our best conversations.

One night, the tequila shots came out, and so did the old hooking-up discussion. He went over the same material as before – how he’d miss being able to tell me all his scandalous stories, how he liked our friendship. Only, this time, he was standing behind me, with his nose mere inches from my hair. If we were going to be just friends, he said, it wasn’t fair that I smelled so good. Standard tequila conversation.

“That first kiss would be really awkward, though,” he said, almost to himself.

Enough! I thought. And without saying a word, I turned around and kissed him. Just like that.

Huh,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Wasn’t awkward for me.”

And by the dazed half-smile on his face, I could tell that awkward wasn’t the word he was thinking of either.

When I pulled up to the stoplight at the intersection of Greenville and Mockingbird, he was there on the traffic island, an old black man in a wheelchair, looking for a hand-out. But it wasn’t my spare change he was after.

“Ma’am?You got any lunch left over?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I hollered back through my sunroof. “I don’t.”

I haven’t even had lunch myself, I thought, realizing that I was experiencing a growing tummy grumble.

If you know me at all, you know I can’t be hungry. I just can’t. I go from content to starving in a blinding flash and then everything goes completely to hell. I have a total emotional meltdown. I was thinking about this when I pulled into the parking lot at Walgreen’s – about how desperately hungry I suddenly felt. Instead of grabbing the to-do list from my purse, I quickly counted the crumpled bills in my wallet and threw the car into reverse.

Burger Heaven. That sounded good. At the window, I ordered a Number Two – plenty of ketchup – and a Coke.

“No, wait,” I said, carefully weighing the options. “Make that a Diet Coke.”

When the light changed to green, I inched forward, braked, and turned on my flashers. The van behind me honked, and my heart raced. I’m sorry. I cringed, but slid the car out of gear and pulled up the parking brake. I opened my door; he honked again.

“God bless you.” The old man wheeled forward to take the fast food bag, and my right hand. “God bless your heart.”

“Thank you. Have a good lunch.”

He held my hand for another second or two, and then I walked back to my car. The light turned red again, but the honking had stopped. The man in the wheelchair pushed a straw into his soda, and I watched from my heated seat, wondering for the second time if maybe he’d lost his legs to Diabetes. Coke, Diet Coke. It seemed like such an important decision.

Until he took a drink. And my world crumbled.

No one should ever have to look that grateful for a stinking Diet Coke. He never once opened his eyes, just sucked away at the straw, smiling between sips.

When the light changed, I drove back to Walgreen’s, sat in the parking lot and cried.

Heather: disturbed by Kiafest
Brother Jason: shopping Kiafest
Mom: what’s Kiafest?

Jason: Poor mom, doesn’t watch TV.

Heather: Those commercials where the salesman is flashdancing? Kill me. And not in the good way.

Jason: Yeah, they bugged the hell out of me last year.

Heather: I worry that mom is not aware enough of her surroundings. Kiafest could be going on and she would have no idea.

Jason: We may need to think about a live-in current events nurse.

Heather: Yeah, maybe you’re right. I just don’ t have the kind of time it takes to care for her multi-media needs. Can we afford in-home care? I think it’s time to call a family meeting.

Jason: I mean, does she even know about the Dodge Sales Event, or Toytoathon? Maybe she could move in with me and Jamie. The rest of the family would have to pitch in for care costs, but it might just have to happen.

Heather: The cable bill, we could split that.

Jason: We’d have to upgrade to HD – that might be a hefty cable bill.

Heather: She’s our MOM. We can’t not. I mean, what if she gets WORSE?

Jason: But they didn’t even have HD when she was a kid. How can that be considered a necessity for her? No, you’re right… we have to.

A couple weeks ago, Mike J and I had dinner at a local pub, and afterward, I came home and crawled directly into bed. An hour later I woke up, feeling like something was not right. After a quick assessment (ooh, I think it’s my stomach), I rolled over to swing my feet to the floor, and threw up all over myself.

Attractive, right? I don’t think I’ve had such little control over my puke power since that time in the third grade when I yakked all over Mrs. Ashby’s shoes. But this was only the beginning of the night’s adventure in pathetic.

I scrambled for the bathroom, where I spent the next two hours begging for death. I’m no stranger to the glorious experience that is food poisoning (Boston 2003, Morocco 2004) and I knew where I was headed. To the hospital for Compazine and an IV full of saline. Only, these days I don’t have health insurance, or a roommate, and I was in no position to get myself to the living room, much less to the Emergency Room.

I texted Mike, on the off chance that he would still be awake. Nada. I texted Jamie, who works nights. Nada. So I curled up on the bathmat and cried. Hard. Here I was, almost thirty years old, and completely alone. And for a girl who really likes alone, I was not digging it at all.

Finally, at a quarter of two, I called my mom.

“Mom, I’m really sick,” I bawled into the phone. “I’m sick and I don’t know what to do.”

She said something about urgent care, which I couldn’t process because I was thinking really important thoughts about crawling back to the toilet. And then she said the magic words,

“I’m on my way.”

It was 1:49. It takes 30 minutes from her door to mine. I grabbed my watch from the bathroom counter and counted. Forty-nine, fifty-nine, oh-nine. Then I crawled back to the toilet, and buried my face in the bowl until help arrived. And when it arrived, she bundled me up, put me in the car, volunteered to pay for a trip to the ER, and listened to me bawl about being alone and pathetic.

“When you’re this sick, you’re always alone.”

Man, you can always count on Mom in times of crisis. If for nothing more than really solid words of wisdom. That, a spare bed and ginger ale, with a bendy straw.

A dozen or so hours I was back on my feet and feeling much less pathetic. I was done feeling sick and more importantly, done feeling sorry for myself. Because on the upside of upchuck, Mike J, moved by the guilt of choosing a bad restaurant, finally Top-Friended me on MySpace. See? So not alone.

“I think my heart actually swelled.”

“I know.”

“Really. I mean, I felt it grow. How often does that happen?”

Almost never. I mean, I sometimes wear a cynic suit, but in reality, I am one of the most easily-delighted people possible. I cry at commercials, I love babies, I smile at children – even the horrid ones – because I can’t stop myself. But what I experienced when Jamie and I went to see Enchanted this afternoon was some other-worldly, ooey-gooey, heart-expanding glee. Ooh, Disney, you’re good. Very good. That shit was romantic.

Rated G swoon.

I was still experiencing an enlarged heart when I got home, so I popped in a CD, snapped on a pair of yellow plastic gloves and cleaned the kitchen to Harry Belafonte. I did the Rumba. I scared the cat. And I thought about how I need a hoop skirt and how more movies need over-the-top, totally unbelievable musical numbers in the middle of Central Park. Then I poured a glass of wine and turned on a grisly crime drama.

Because I knew if I sustained that kind of momentum, I’d end up writing sappy Christmas cards or forgiving ex-boyfriends. And I didn’t want to be responsible for throwing the planet out of alignment.

When he climbed in bed next to me, I thought, no big deal. The five of us had come back to Venice hostel that night in various stages of drunk, and it was cold in the attic dorm room. Really cold. Obviously he just wanted someone to sleep next to. I mean, I was ten years older than the kid, so there was no way he wanted…

That’s when he started rubbing my arm. And kissing my ear.

“I think you need to go to your bed,” I said, ripping the yellow spongy earplugs out of my ears and inching away. It was a twin bed; there wasn’t really anywhere to go.

“Do you really want me to?

“Yes! Yes, I really want you to!”

I was not about to turn Mrs. Robinson in a room full of sleeping strangers. He was out of his gourd!

And what he said next will go down as the biggest pillow-talk backfire in the history of… well, ever. The best worst line. Sliding his hand down my arm, he lowered his voice and said,

“Come on, Heather. You can be twenty again.”

“Out!”

I can be twenty again? Flattering! And, uh, no thank you. I wouldn’t be twenty again for a lifetime of spa pedicures and a day pass to Detective Elliot Stabler’s wardrobe trailer. That is how much I do not want to be twenty again. I love my not-twenty crows feet and the age-acquired good sense to not hook up with a college kid while his friend is sleeping five feet away. Twenty again! Gah!

Besides, at twenty, I was Mormon and extremely uptight. And I’m betting he didn’t climb into bed with me so we could pray together.

“No such luck.”

I smiled down at the scruffy-faced guy in 38H. On my way down the aisle, I’d watched him eying the window seat with high hopes. A whole row to himself for the ten-hour flight from Rome to JFK. Like I said, no such luck. He helped me heft my bag into the overhead bin and the small talk began.

He was Brad. I was Heather. He was really handsome. And I was… well, I’d been living out of a backpack for way too many weeks, and looking rough. I was not in a position to flirt, or be flirted with, so we stuck to the basics.

“Is New York your last stop?” he asked after I’d settled in.

“No, I live in Dallas,” I said.

“Me, too. Where in Dallas?”

“North Dallas,” I said.

“Me, too! Where?”

“The Village…”

“Me, too!”

In the end, we figured out that Handsome Brad lives across the street from me. What a coincidence! And what relief! Because now all I have to do is prance up and down the street, three or four times a day, in my favorite ass-tastic jeans, until I run into Brad. You know, to prove that I do wash my hair and own clean clothes.

And then it’s gonna be game on.

“It’ll be like Wedding Crashers… only, you know, with Christmas parties.”

Jamie laughed, but I meant business. See, I believe it’s one of the world’s great injustices that a girl with a closet full of little black dresses – a girl who loves nothing more than to get gussied up and spun around on a dance floor – doesn’t have a fancy holiday party to go to. Think Tiny Tim without his Christmas goose.

Totally tragic.

Friday night, Laura, Jamie and I sat around a table at the Tipp, discussing how we were going to right this colossal wrong. I was willing to do what it took. If crashing wasn’t going to work, well, I was this close to hiring myself out as an escort for the season. And that’s when the Universe intervened.

They’d been watching us from across the bar, and had even performed not-so-sly flybys of our table on the way to the men’s room. But when the two older guys finally came to talk to us, it wasn’t to deliver some cheesy, overused line. It was to deliver invitations. To a black tie charity event.

“We have to go!”

Laura couldn’t be persuaded, but after a little coaxing Jamie got on board. And Saturday night, after a little schedule shifting and a quick wardrobe change, Jamie and I were on our way to White Rock Lake, primped, preened and… a little nervous.

“This is only mildly crazy, right?”

“No,” Jamie said. “It’s totally crazy. But that’s what I love about it.”

At worst, we figured, the party would blow. We’d go in, make a charitable donation, take advantage of the open bar, get bored and go home early. And at best? Well, two hours later, when I found myself on my fifth glass of holiday punch and on round II of The Plastic Surgery Game (fifty cents for spotting an obvious boob job; a buck for a face lift) with a dozen or so men in tuxedos, I decided the evening had more than qualified for an at best rating. The rest of the night is just a little fuzzy, but it involves champagne and dancing and breakfast at 3AM in Cafe Brazil with Jim the Insurance Guy and his sidekick, Trey the iPhone Man.

My feet are blistered, my head is thumping, and lethal amounts of Pad Thai were required to soak up the mess of holiday punch that was still sloshing around in my stomach when I crawled out of bed this afternoon. But isn’t that the way all good holiday stories end? Well, that and a good goosing.

God bless us, every one.

Every day when I’m on the Katy Trail, I make a point of saying hi to the bike cops I pass on my jog. Like, wave and smile and ask how they’re doing. And not because I’m all that friendly. But because, if something bad were to happen to me, I’d want them to remember having seen me. The spastic girl in the bright red t-shirt.

I was telling my cop brother about it today, thinking how truly morbid it sounded when I put it into words, and then a news item came on one of the local channels. About a woman who was severely beaten (broken pelvis, for god’s sake) for her iPod. On the Katy Trail. Less than 20 minutes after I left it.

And then it didn’t seem so morbid at all. It seemed more like what my my brother said – a really good idea to be nice to the people who might someday save your life.

Relatedly, I’m wondering if this means the Katy and I need to start seeing other people/trails. I’ve only felt unsafe there once, and I burned some serious shoe rubber to get to a more crowded section of the trail. Yeah, it was a bad feeling, but this is much more than that. This makes me so angry. I hate the idea that it’s not safe to go out in broad daylight. Especially considering that the Katy is really the only piece of sanity I have right now.

See, I’m not doing so awesome at being home. Not even kind of. I feel aimless and confused and restless. Depressed, I think. With so many hours to fill and no idea of how to fill them, I find myself making elaborate meals, just so I’ll have to spend time cleaning it up. Sad, right?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Get a job. But it’s not that simple. Getting a job – just any old job – would be like giving a falling down house a brand new paint job. It’s not a real solution. So for now, I go on long runs – an activity I’ve somehow parlayed into a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. And if I have to give that up, well, I’m not exactly sure where that will leave me.

Maybe I need a really scary looking dog.

I was driving home the other night, and couldn’t help but grin like a fool at all the Christmas lights my little community has set ablaze. Trees with their trunks wrapped with white bulbs, fake candles glowing electric orange in apartment windows. And that’s when I smacked my hand on the steering wheel and said, “Oh, man! I have to tell the Internet about the Baby Jesus-es!”

I bring you good tidings of great joy, Internet. There is a street in Napoli, the entire length of which is dedicated to the Nativity.

The irony is that it’s packed with people, most of whom are trying to lift your wallet, but I digress. It’s a whole street filled with shops dedicated to providing the good people of Napoli with their manger scene needs! It was glorious! If it was the kind of street where it was safe to whip out your camera, I’d have pictures to show you – pictures of a store that sold nothing but the Baby Jesus.

Bins, baskets, heaps, walls covered in the Baby Jesus. It was Italy, so we didn’t see too much variety as far as skin color, but ignoring that, there was every kind of Baby Jesus you can imagine. Skinny, plump, clothed, nekkid, curly haired, bald. I love that no one can agree on what his Almightyness looked like, and it doesn’t seem to matter. You know, so long as you don’t go making him black, or *gasp* appropriately Middle Eastern.

Jet lag is is a real kick in the pants. The way I understood it, you’re supposed to come home, programmed to another time zone, and sleep for like, a zillion hours. Me, I can’t sleep at all. And worse yet, I’m really freaking perky. My backpack is emptied, laundry done (what clothes I didn’t throw away), ironed and put away.

But I’m also really scattered. It took me a good thirty minutes just to type those first few sentences. I mean, how can I sit still when there are receipts to organize and attention-whoring kittens to play with. Jogs to take.

Here’s a tangent for you: I ate my way through Italy and lost five pounds. Doesn’t something about that sound wrong? I’m not going to argue with the facts, but I am going to change a few things about the way I run my kitchen. No more artificial sweeteners, loads more olive oil. I’ve never been so stomachly satisfied as I was in Italy and yet, didn’t meet with AES. You know, Ass Expanding Syndrome. End tangent.

I’m off to burn off some more weird, jet lag energy, and then to Mom’s for turkey dinner. You know, speaking of satisfying.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.

I’m feeling a bit mentally messy today – half of my brain is busy with planning my trip home tomorrow (I know! It seems impossible that this is almost over) and the other half is occupied cataloging my experiences in Napoli.

Starting out, I was wary about going. I’d been warned by travelers and Italians alike that Napoli was one scary, godforsaken place. Pickpockets! Thieves! Miscellaneous danger! But then, I’d also heard that Napoli invented pizza. Invented. Pizza. Frankly, I think that can erase a whole lot of wrongs. Besides which, I happen to be the kind of girl who can really get into godforsaken. So I made up my mind to love Napoli – pickpockets, pizzamakers and all.

And I did. For the parts of it I was awake, anyway.

The rain followed me from Rome to Napoli and so did the cold that I picked up in Lucca. So after exploring Napoli for an afternoon, I trudged back to the hostel, and crawled into bed. With my laptop and a pizza. So far, the Napoli-haters were seeming like a bunch of chumps. What could possibly be better than a whole pizza for under 3 Euros? Nothing. Unless it’s eating it in your pajamas after spending a few nerdy hours at the archaeological museum pouring over Pompeii artifacts. Turns out, I’m kind of a sucker for mosaics.

The next day I headed out to Pompeii – I’ll probably end up writing about it more on the other blog, as it was one of those educational, touristy experiences that fits better there than here, but the moment I get back to the states, I’m renting every single documentary on that place I can find. It was fascinating. And cold. Really freaking cold. Lest I had any notions that Southern Italy might be a warmish sort of place, I was speedily corrected by the snow on Vesuvius and the wind in Pompeii. By 4:00 I was back in the hostel for pizza and another nap.

I’d booked a car tour tofhe Amalfi Coast before I arrived, thinking it’d be the best way to take in a lot of territory in a little time. In the end, it was a fantastic idea, because yesterday was the worst of them all – heavy rain and steadily dropping temperatures my capilene long-johns couldn’t keep up with. I think my guide was surprised (and totally relieved – she said her hair thanked me) when I suggested we didn’t actually have to get out of the car to see things – that if she just pointed, I’d be more than satisfied. By Sorrento, the rain had turned to sleet, and I was nodding off to the rhythm of windshield wipers. I’m sure you can guess how the afternoon wrapped up. With a nap and.. not pizza! I had a big bowl of Gnocci that an Australian hostel-mate had picked up in the market, with prawns, tomatoes, basil and buffalo mozzarella. Drool.

In the end, the only thing dangerous about Napoli, was the quantity of food I consumed there. If I don’t fit in my airplane seat tomorrow, I’m going to be really irritated with myself.

Between the food and the people, it’s hard to say what I’ve loved best about my last few days in Rome. It certainly isn’t the monsoon we’re having right now, or the nasty cold I picked up somewhere along the way – that is one thing I’m sure of.

But the food! The food isn’t exactly your typical Roman fare. In fact, I’ve only eaten out twice since I got here on Monday. I’ve devoured the rest of my meals right here in the hostel at the Beehive Cafe. Vegetarian and mostly organic, the yummy meals are made right in front of your very eyes, from vegetables grown in the on-site garden, by Francesca and Gianluca.

Pumpkin/Gorgonzola quiche. Yogurt with granola and fresh fruit. Chickpea, lentil and broccoli soup. Tagliatelle with arugula, sun dried tomatoes and Parmesan. Multi-grain oatmeal with fresh pears and honey. Minestrone with crusty bread. Nutella crepes with ice cream. Wine. And tea. Lots and lots of tea with honey.

You get a pretty good idea of what’s for dinner while you’re eating breakfast. Francesca starts tossing vegetables into a big pot, and then it’s only a matter of waiting. Dinner every night is a parade of exquisitely good food and a riot-a-minute conversation. Throw three Americans, a Canadian or two, a couple of Aussies, a few Brits, and a Greek gal into the same room with overflowing plates of pasta and free-flowing wine and the result is… well, it’s the receptionist coming down the stairs to remind us that quiet hours have begun. Twice.

And then there’s Carlo, the young Italian guy in the dorm. In common, Carlo and I have a bunk-bed and a cold, and not a whole lot more. But that seems to be enough to keep the conversation flowing. He is, I think, the most earnest person I’ve ever met and he goes to the greatest lengths to hurdle that language barrier.

This morning, I teased him about his snoring.

“Oh, no! Really? I snork?”

I choked on a giggle. Snork.

“Only a little,” I told him. “I’m just teasing you.”

“Tonight, if I snork, you…” he made a gesture, indicating that I should punch his bed from below.

“I would never!”

“Only for you, I tell you to do this.”

And then this morning, when I saw him at breakfast, he asked if he had snorked again the night before.

“No, no. I slept like a baby,” I lied.

There was no way I was going to tell him the truth. Just like I’d never, ever tell him the word isn’t snork.

I hadn’t been in Rome more than a couple hours when he stepped out next to me on the sidewalk – from the doorway of a bank. He was dressed impeccably in a dark gray suit with all the trimmings – right down to the shiny cuff links. As he moved onto the sidewalk we made eye contact, and as I began to pass him, he commented (in English) on the beauty that was my hair.

I smiled politely. I do have a nice head of hair.

And, as I got a few steps away, the well dressed bank man amended his compliment with a politely-worded question.

“Would you like to f–k?”

Oh, Rome. You know just what to say to a girl.

Words, when I can find them. But for now:

Sometimes, when you’re in the middle of a kiss, you realize that it’s not just a kiss, but a really good kiss. And the moment you realize this, your stomach flips, your toes curl, and your brain goes very, very soft — so soft that you wouldn’t be able to think any important thoughts, even if it became absolutely necessary. And you sigh. In defeat as much as satisfaction, because the kiss has won out over everything else.

That is what Lucca is like. A very good kiss.

The trees raining their leaves – dinner plate sized sheets in yellows and browns, and the smell of bread baking, and the voices of old men arguing about politics and sports as they shuffle by, and the winding cobblestone streets almost vacant of other tourists. I’ve walked the top of the city walls for hours, once at sunset, to watch the sky turn pink against the hills. My camera is useless here. There’s just too much to take in.

I am beginning to think this place is enchanted. I tried to leave — only for the afternoon, to see Pisa and its all-important tower — and met with a train strike. The man at the Tabacchiere smiled as he told me.

“No trains until… cinque,” he said, holding up five fingers.

I smiled in return. “No trains,” I repeated. “I guess that means I should get some gelato and go for a walk.”

He grinned again. “Good, Bella. Very good.”

So I walked, and then sat in a shower of leaves, read some Paul Auster, and thought, “Yes. Good. Very good.”

(A permanent link to my travel blog, On the Road, is in the drop down box on the right)

The six bed dorm in the Venetian hostel had become seven beds for the night.

On Sunday night, it would be just me and Daniel, the boy with the ripped jeans from Melbourne. I would sit in my black slip on the bed across from him, darning his jeans, first using up all the red thread (cotton, to him) and then the green. We’d tell stories and laugh and drink red wine out of flimsy plastic cups. And before going to sleep, we’d set the alarm for 8:00, to get up early to pack and go in search of Internet and coffee. And after, I wouldn’t say good-bye, but leave for the train when he’d gone upstairs to pee.

But before all that, in the beginning, there were seven beds in a six bed dorm and we were all a little drunk.

(You’ll have to forgive the typing and spelling errors in this post. I’m using an Italian keyboard on what has to be the oldest computer I’ve ever seen, with a blinking green screen that might make me fall into a twitchy fit at any second.)

Several people have asked how I feel about traveling alone. It must be miserable! Or wonderful! And yes, yes it is.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about this, but I am not homesick. At all. I miss my cat and my big, comfy bed and such, but I don’t want to go home (though, in all honesty, I do have to remind myself of that when I am having a particularly frustrating TrainItalia experience and my back hurts and I really, really want a hot bath). It’s Because of the way I’m wired that I don’t get lonely. At least, not as a result of the absence of people. I get lonely when I don’t feel wanted or appreciated. That is isolation. Exploring Venice without a partner, is not.

Most of the time, I’ve found that I love traveling alone – walking by myself, eating while absent-mindedly flipping through a guidebook (there are tomato stains all over mine), not stopping to see important works of art because I just don’t want to. Spending twenty-two minutes trying to get just the perfect shot of some chubby-cheeked urchin trying to decide if feeding the pigeons is a safe activity to engage in. God, he was cute. And I love not having to worry about being somewhere or pleasing anyone. It’s selfish and it’s satisfying.

I miss touch, though. I could use a hug, or sixty, right about now.

And I wish, so much, that Sarah could be here with me. We wanted to see Italy together. And when I see gorgeous red shoes or a smoking hot gondolier, I think, Oh, Sarah. Where are you? But even Sarah and I would have to take alone time if she were here. Hours of it. Because I know that she, like I do, revels in the experience of swimming around in her own thoughts, and the freedom of stopping to take just one more picture of pretty window boxes without having to care if it holds anyone up.

When she asked how it was for me, being by myself, I wrote:

You know what’s hardest? Being alone in my wrong-ness. Like when I go out to eat, and fumble around trying to find words, or to get what I want – I’m the only one looking like an ass. There’s no one to turn to and say, “God, I hope I get the trout and not the tripe.” That’s what’s hard.

But that’s how it is. The selfish and the satisfying can turn so quickly into the empty and meaningless if there is no one to share it with. Which is why, dear Interweb, I thank the Baby J that all of this possible. Sharing things, without proximity or touching, with miles and miles between me and the ones I love. A photo sent to Sarah of beautiful red shoes. A message from Jamie, “Dallas misses you.” An email to my mother that says, “Venice!” And one from her that says, “I worry. I’m glad you are safe.”

So you see, I am alone here. But I am not lonely.

I am engulfed in sound. It’s familiar in tone, but when I try to separate it into words, it becomes chaos. It hums — and sometimes, roars — around me, punctuated by the bright noise of wine glasses meeting. Tink!

Eating out is intimidating. Just ordering – no, asking for a table – makes my mouth sweat.

Tonight, I order wine and the scallop mezzalune with lobster ragout – by pointing. It feels so caveman, but I’ve learned my lesson. I made the mistake of speaking Italian at the first restaurant. A mistake, only because I did it correctly. And in reply, came a flurry of songwords — some vaguely familiar because of their closeness to Spanish, but mostly foreign and confounding. I simply shrugged in response.

Mi dispiace. No parlo Italiano.

And still, she looked at me as if certain I was telling a fib. As though she wanted to say, But you just did speak Italian. Finally she gave up, grabbed a menu and smiled.

“Okay, dee-ner for one. Yes?”

Sigh. Yes. Dinner for one.

The roar dies, just for a second, and I think I can hear one of my own thoughts. But then poof! it gets lost again as the table next to me erupts in cheers. Accustomed to restaurants where people make polite chit-chat over dinner, the Italian dining experience is an adventure in frenzy. Loud and indistinguishable – it makes me feel drunk. Or drugged. Or underwater.

But I don’t mind too much. Because the wine is so excellent – my nostrils get a taste before the glass in to my lips – and the food is equally hypnotizing. And before I know it, it’s gone. All the Porcini mushrooms and the roasted pork. Gone. And then another face is floating in front of me, singing words that don’t register. After a moment, the face darkens, then brightens.

“Ooh, eez Een-gleesh, yes? You want something else?”

Yes. Dessert.

(I recorded 30 seconds of ambient noise at the restaurant to share. It recorded at low volume, so you may have to turn it up. In fact, DO turn it up. You know, for that next-best-thing-to-being-there feeling.Download it here.)

It is the capital of Awesome.

I have found a laundromat in Turin, and now I have clean, really clean, clothes. I have eaten Parmesan risotto, had what has to be the realest, yummiest espresso ever, and now, I’m going to go on a walk and take some pictures. There is a skinny mirror in my hotel, the towels as big as ME, and I’ve been drinking wine all day long.

This place is okay by me.

The camera: is a point-and-shoot, Pentax Optio M10. Flickr has a nice little write-up on it.