Mammary Update

"Do you hear that, Sarah? The little bugger says he's got breasts!"

Unfortunately, simply saying that I've got the goods doesn't seem to do it. Ah well. Back to the drawing board.

Or rather...not. Why? Here's why. Tomorrow, kiddies, I go Cambridge. I go to Cambridge for ten whole days. There will be fortresses. There will be glee. There may even be morris dancing -- but that's only if I'm feeling particularly, splendidly ambitious.

Gender Issues

Life, my crafty old nemesis, seems to keep moving forward and bringing more and more Blog-worthy things into my sphere of awareness. This is great, because it's nice to actually have something to write about when one sits down to write, but also profoundly not great because it means that if I let too many days go by, I find myself simply unable to catch up to all the wonders that have transpired before the here and now. In the last batch of days we've had Florence, food, absurdist Russian spectacle theatre, romance, reunions, and raving relatives. However, I'm going to have to leave the great majority of these topics scattered around the globe in various letters, because this particular blog is going to be about my mad Grandmother and the specifics of female anatomy. Tantalized and titillated? Read on...

I arrived back in England on the 20th (a much anticipated date) and managed to locate my mother on an evening train bound for King's Lynn the following day. After much happy leaping and giggling, we managed to settle down enough to exchange stories of all that had transpired in the five months since we'd last clapped eyes on each other. The end of the WGA strike came as particularly welcome news, as it means I'll actually have a house to come home to instead of a refrigerator box with bookshelves. And the Oscars got to happen. Which I suppose is good for those people who won Oscars. Well done there.

We've ended up together in Sedgeford, a very small town in the wilds of Norfolk inhabited by various relatives of mine. The only one who's actually related to me by blood, my grandmother Wendy, has Alzheimer's and is quite mad. I may have touched upon this is a previous post. She is, however, a delightful woman who is still quite shockingly silly and incredibly rude. (See: Unafraid to gesture as to just where I could stick the carrot I was trying to feed her this evening over dinner.) Unfortunately, she has very little short-term memory, and therefore tends to forget who I am a great deal. I was alright with this on previous visits, but as I've cut off all my hair in recent weeks, she keeps mistaking me for a member of the opposite sex.

Granted, I have become used to this since I first cut my hair short six years ago, but under normal circumstances a single correction is all you need to make the offending person blush scarlet and apologise profusely. Not so here. Regardless of how many times I patiently explain that I am, in fact, a girl. Named Lucy.

"Yes, that's right. Lucy Bellwood. Your granddaughter. Yes. Daughter. No, really I am. And that's my mother, who's your daughter. No, I just said. I'm a girl. Yes. Why? Because I like having it this short. No, we're visiting from America and we -- FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH!"

Etcetera.

It's essentially like re-living the same five minutes over and over again for all eternity. Or at least all of ten days. I try to maintain my sanity by doing the crossword every morning and knitting with concentrated ferocity -- two activities which, in and of themselves, already seem to suggest a distinct lack of normal. Maybe I'm not doing so well after all...

Anyway, the moment in particular that I'd like to draw your attention to took place over breakfast the other morning. Sunshine was slanting through the French windows, turning the kitchen pleasant and warm. My mother was sipping a suspiciously green healthy smoothie and Wendy, sat opposite me, was spitting bits of tomato skin about the place with reckless abandon. In the course of her circular conversations, she had been asking "And who's that lovely young man over there?" quite frequently. At first, I had answered patiently that I was, in fact, her granddaughter, and hoped that she would get the idea, but no luck. I moved on to just saying "GIRL" very pointedly every time she used the wrong personal pronoun, but still to no avail.

The sheer hopelessness of it all started to get to me. I was also stuck on a particularly obscure crossword clue. And I hadn't eaten. I also hadn't slept much the night before. Basically, I'm just trying to find an excuse for what happened next, but there isn't really a good one to be had. The fact of the matter is that after I'd shouted "I'm a GIRL!" for about the 13th time, she looked at me in a befuddled manner and asked "But why are you a girl?" In retrospect, I have been able to correctly identify this as The Last Straw, mainly because, in response, I proceeded to tear open my kimono and bellow "BECAUSE I HAVE THESE!"

Many things happened in quick succession at that point. My mother spat smoothie across half the table, I realized that I had, effectively, just flashed my oldest surviving relative (at the breakfast table no less), and my grandmother looked quite taken aback for a few moments before bursting into peals of laughter. After expelling the remainder of her smoothie (Thankfully into the glass from whence it came) my mother did the same. And I, breasters akimbo and feeling slightly silly, couldn't help but join in.

This may now go down in history as the defining moment of what it means to be a member of the long and noble line of Christie women. In short: We're all raving lunatics, Alzheimer's or no. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

For those of you who take a scientific interest in this sort of thing, I am happy to report that my drastic exhibitionism did actually result in a lack of gender confusion for all of the next five minutes. Still, one has to start somewhere.

Brevity

I seem to have shorn off a great deal of my hair. Again. More accurately, an Italian-Iranian magician with a penchant for foreign languages and sushi seems to have shorn it off for me. This probably explains why I'm still in posession of both my ears.

Unfortunately, it wasn't even particularly warm when there was hair to spare, so now things are positively frigid. Hats are required. To meet this demand, I have taken up my mighty needles once more and am knitting. This, in turn, brings the grand total of "Things Which Cause Passers-By to Stare Rudely at Me" up to 3, if one counts lack of hair and eccentric taste in pants as the first two.

Essentially: I'm still above ground and sucking air. I'll wax lyrical for your collective edification and amusement shortly. Promise.

Happy Shouts with a Moderate Side of Pesto

A great deal has transpired, and therefore there is a great deal to be said. However, there is little time to say it in, and so we'll have to be content with whatever drifts to the surface of my psyche at present.

Today, walking past the Duomo to sup on polenta and crema cotta, I met my old friend Monsieur A -- a gentleman who's consistently been making me smile since I first met him in Paris at the age of 10. Our relationship has been fleeting and mysterious, but I am exceedingly glad that he's a part of my life. If you see him on your various travels, make sure to let me know. He promises postcards, but is notoriously unreliable.

Italy (among other things at present) has stolen my heart. I've met a continuous stream of magical, lovely people and can't stop myself from smiling all the time at the beauty of my surroundings. Between the food, the architecture, the language, and the sunshine, I am in a state of constant bliss. A great deal of time is devoted to not spending great wadges of cash on stationary -- which was assisted (until now) by the total lack of cash on my personage. My wallet was not recovered, so living was precarious for my week in Roma. Fortunately, my replacement bank card has arrived and so (for better or worse) I may now access my funding once more. So far I haven't blown the remainder of my savings on leather journals and sealing wax, but it's a close thing.

Highlights from Roma included attending a Carnivale Libre in Poggio Mirteto (A small mountain town northeast of the city), being treated to "The Never-Ending Dinner" with my charming Couchsurfing hostess, Nathalie, writing the final words on the last page of my journal, watching cats ruling over ruins in the Area Sacra Argentina, sleeping in the sun, and tasting the world's most blissful gelato under a crescent moon. To pause for a moment on this last item: My two scoops of heaven were "Cream, lavender, and chamomile" atop "Rosehips with Orange Blossoms." I can assure you it was every bit as blissful as it sounds. Other gastronomic delights included ice cold limoncello, mirto, and moscato rosé, amaretto, pasta pappardelle with shrimp and fresh tomatoes, grilled spigola with potatoes, and porchetta sandwiches. Oh goodness. I seem to be salivating again.

Stumbling upon the Pantheon is enough to set one reeling with delight, but if that isn't enough there are a thousand twisting alleyways to explore -- each one full of eccentric balconies, cascading ferns, tumbledown restaurants, and secret stores full of unimaginable delights. It's a paradise. For perspective, the view over the city from the Monumento a Giuseppe Garibaldi is beyond belief, and the mountains and valleys in the surrounding countryside are full of picturesque late afternoon light, green fields, and shimmering olive groves.

I arrived here in Firenze last night, quite tired and deliriously happy, to be met by my current hosts Holly and Cassiope. Obviously, people who envelop you with hugs the moment you step off your train are good company. I have not been disappointed. Not only with them, but with every Couchsurfer encountered in this country. It's the most affirming experience I can imagine -- especially because the whole concept seems impossible when held against the chaotic state of the world at present. In spite of everything, it works. As simple as that. Upheld by legions of generous, friendly people who will go out of their way to point you in the right direction or take you in when you have nowhere to go. Even if you already have somewhere to go, they'll do their best to lure you away to their couches instead. It's so magical that I forget it's not even costing me anything. Because even if it was, I'd pay.

The door of my current abode opens into the bustling centre of the San Lorenzo market, and the flat is shared by nine people, plus a variety of guests. Between Couchsurfers, significant others, friends, and relatives, the place is packed and full of laughter all the time. Nothing can go wrong in such a utopia. I have a feeling this city will be good for my spirit.

Also in the "Good for My Spirit" department: Anticipation. I've found that (yet another) great thing about this journey has been the discovery that I really and truly love having things to look forward to. Flights, reunions, new horizons, excursions, homecomings -- If I can line up enough wonderful future occurrences, my world will never be without exuberance and joy. They can range from enjoying a piece of fresh fruit every morning, to crossing multiple countries for the sake of fleeting bliss. At present, between exploring Italy, being reunited with my Cambridge compatriots, seeing my family, returning to Ojai in the spring, and sallying forth on the tall ship sailing summer adventure of a lifetime, I seem to have done quite well. (This will most likely be counted as one of those "Lasting Gap-Year Impressions" in months and years to come…)

This evening we're engaging in Scrabbly madness at the Irish Pub where Holly works (after delicious vegan dining -- we picked out fresh vegetables from the market this morning), and tomorrow will bring new and unusual adventures. I'm contemplating taking to the hills for a few nights before I return to Roma, and so have been in touch with various hosts living in marvelous Tuscan countryside oases.

It all remains to be seen, but whatever happens: Life is beyond beautiful. I forget sometimes, but right now it's never been more obvious.

Last Words

Clocking in at just past 12:30 am every night, the garbage collectors of Salamanca hit the streets. The first evening of my stay I could've sworn there was a minor earthquake ricocheting down Calle de Don Bosco, but since then it's become a familiar fixture. Tonight, curled in bed, scribbling by candlelight and the ruddy orange glow from the streetlights, getting dripped on by the various drying garments which form a canopy overhead, I can see the windows trying to leap out of their metal frames. The juddering of the engine in the street below is dislodging droplets of condensation which run races through the variety of joyous words I've written in the steam.

Mostly, I'm packed and ready to go. As always, it has come as a surprise that I have so little with me here. After I throw out the various odd bits of paper and pack away the sealing wax and the stamps and the traveling umbrella, there's really not much left. My shoulders are fairly grateful for this fact, as tomorrow marks the return to impermanence once more. I'm catching a train very early in the morning and will be settled (if one can call it that) for my first night in Rome by 9 pm. However, as the journey is on its last legs and money isn't bursting from the seams of my backpack, I'm couchsurfing once more -- and it seems I couldn't have picked a better country to do it in.

Something in the Italian spirit really seems to spark to the Couchsurfing Project. This probably doesn't come as a surprise to most, as Italians are known for being exceedingly friendly and vivacious -- therefore marking them as obvious candidates for welcoming nomadic strangers into their homes simply for the sake of enjoying their company and showing off their beautiful city. It does mean that I'll be moving about a fair bit, but it's cheap and, more importantly, allows one to see Rome through the eyes of all its lovers and madmen. I'm preparing myself for many nights full of sparkly things and the sound of bells and the taste of pasta and wine -- and I don't doubt that the world will deliver.

Salamanca is wet and chilly, trying to decompress after a weekend of festivities. The flat has been colonized by various siblings and friends these last three days -- each night bringing new and more bizarre costumes for the assembled company prior to heading for the nightlife of downtown around 3 am. Feeling the need for a little peace and quiet before my departure, I've stayed in. However, excitement tracked me down nonetheless. Friday evening, arriving home, I was met by Paula and Julio in the midst of some sort of argument. After being convinced that I wouldn't have to get involved/decapitated, I went to put purchases away. Unfortunately, it seemed that my bulb was out, as the switch on the wall did nothing to illuminate my room.

Sensibly, I made sure the switch was off before I dragged a chair over to take a look at the situation, but apparently that wasn't enough to stop the vicious shower of sparks which exploded from the bottom of my Chinese lampshade when I attempted to remove it from the bulb. I immediately (Reflexes of a cat) uttered a violent stream of expletives and fell backwards off the chair and onto the bed, smelling more than a little of singed hair. After making sure nothing had caught fire, I realized that the entire apartment had been plunged into darkness. Many tipsy giggles from the living room, Paula threatening people with a crank-action flashlight, and Julio tripping over things in the hallway trying to find the breaker panel. Once power was restored to the rest of apartment, we gathered to assess the situation.

Gingerly, in case of further unexpected pyrotechnic displays, we managed to unscrew the bulb and investigate the wiring. We didn't have to investigate very closely. Both copper wires had been blown apart by the force of the current, although it probably didn't take much, as they were both frayed and corroded beyond all reason. We left it hanging there, melted bits of wiring hanging from the ceramic, and decided that we'd handle it in the morning. Luckily, Ann was able to lend me her desk lamp, and I'd bought some tea lights a few weeks earlier, which explains, more or less, the situation at the beginning of this installment. The dripping clothing has more to do with the terrible knowledge that I'm probably not going to have access to a washing machine for the next two weeks, and therefore decided to launder everything -- Merino be damned.

In the department of difficult things, I've lost my wallet. This is inconvenient, but not the end of the world. The only real challenge will be figuring out how I can manufacture more Pope cards. In the meantime, much cancelling of bits of plastic and applying for new student ID's, as well as a bit of nostalgia, as I'd been carrying the thing for at least seven years. Perhaps it will yet emerge from some unlikely hiding place in my room, but I'm not hopeful. I am, however, alive. This puts things in a nice sort of perspective.

Basically, this has all been the fabled Last Hurrah before I descend once more into crypticism (Not a real word, you say? It hasn't stopped me before.) and anonymity. I will, of course, do my best to update frequently in the coming two weeks, but I doubt it's going to come close to the products of unlimited computing time here in Spain. If all else fails, there will certainly be (more) postcards and letters on the way to all quarters, along with a great deal of love. Rest assured, I will be enjoying myself prodigiously.

So, until next time, ciao bellezze.

On The Subject of Mullets

A brief word now, if I may, on mullets. They are alarming. They are here. They are there. They are everywhere. One may laugh, looking back through the family photo album or the comedic 70's teen flick -- but when you're confronted by a Ziggy Stardust knock-off in jeans and a coat first thing upon leaving the safety of your home in the morning, something very basic in the "instincts" department starts screaming. Granted, I was warned before I came, so I shouldn't make too much of a fuss, but still -- it's a mullet.

And yet, something has to be said for a culture in which 12 year old boys can get away with the sporting of such a hairstyle. If pre-pubescent males can learn to accept -- and even, dare I say it, revere -- this sort of thing in Spain, then I have hope that man's inhumanity to man may be curable after all.