Stop, summer, stop

I just want this heat and sun and summer to last.

All of a sudden I feel homesick for my family.

I am editing and uploading photos from my sister trip to Italy and realize that I miss my family and, also, think my soul somehow connected with Cinque Terre very deeply. It is not only one of the most beautiful places on earth but really resonated inside me. Sure, the Taj Mahal is amazing, sure Antartica is incredible, and yes I'm sure the pyramids are a sight to behold, but something in the Cinque Terre area made me feel free, content, liberated, strong, at peace, and like I could chuck it all and go open a tarot card reader shop and be happy for the rest of my life. Or, maybe I could help the old guy at Due Gemelli run his hotel.

One of many dreams that inspired me to apply to grad school: It was me, retired to a flat on the 14th floor of an apartment building overlooking a park in Buenos Aires. I have a library, an ottoman, my crippled body shuffling to the window, my own books on the shelves behind me. Now, I wonder if I could put that overlooking the sea in Corniglia.

On our third day in Cinque, we hiked from Vernazza (which seemed like heaven on water the day before when we arrived after hiking for hours) to Corniglia. It was not the most beautiful town, and we followed the signs to the "beach" which was hundreds of stairs down from the hill (we thought of the return upwards and groaned). Almost to the end of the stairs at the rocky cliff "beach," we passed a two-story building. A man came out to his two dogs. I thought of Miller, Hemingway, every lighthouse man, every writer or painter by the sea. He, along with the memory of the man the day before, who stepped out onto his porch when we were mid-hike, mid-olive grove, mid-vineyard, he stepped out to tinker with a machine part in the sun. Was there a cigarette in the corner of his mouth? And when I tried in French-Spanish-Italian-English to tell him he was lucky to live here, he commented back in broken English that he was old, I was young. This form of solitude at the slowing down days. I want this.

....

Two years ago, I wrote somewhere that I wanted to be an intern at the UN.

Be careful what you wish for.

....

I wish to be in the hills of Cinque Terre. Before my hands are disabled by arthritis. Before I can no longer hike the hills. And after I know I can afford to mold myself into the hills and seas, rocks and cobblestones. My soul has so many houses on this planet. I have not returned to the most important yet. Some day I will.