Ropi’s hands dart to and fro in violent enthusiasm out each window as he drives. “Bella Roma!!” he shouts as he stabs the air pointing with his whole hand to the next beautiful sight we pass, like he’s saluting a military commander or going in for a firm handshake. We round the corner with the road as the Colosseum reveals herself in all her majestic glory. My heart swells. Being in Rome again feels like coming home after six years.

I watch Ropi’s massively overweight body dance around in his seat in a fireball of energy, his rotund stomach bouncing five more chins up into his own every time it shakes, and I let laughter wash over me. I love the Italians. I love their passion, their enthusiasm for life and all things beautiful, and most of all the way every phrase out of their mouth comes out in a song. I don’t tell Ropi that I have been here before because I don’t want him to stop exploding with love for this city in front of me. Then again, he’s lived here all his life and the proud love still tumbles out of him so I’m sure it would make no difference.

I met Ropi just ten minutes ago at a market a few blocks from the train station. In my anxious excitement to get off the train and meet my brother, John, here, I had done so too early and was a very far walk from my hotel. Ropi was enjoying a cigarette and a newspaper with friends at an outside table when he must have seen this sweat drowned rat of a girl carrying what looked like a dead body in a bag on her back asking for directions from the waiter.

“You need taxi?!” he shouted from behind me and I turned around. He was about 6’4 and 375 pounds in a purple polo shirt that clung to his belly like cellophane in a vain attempt to keep it from dropping to his knees. A mop of dark grey hair sprung out from his watermelon head like post electrocution wires. He had on those funny sweat pant capris that old men wear and they cut off 4 inches above his scuffed, white New Balances, the left one barely leaving the pavement as he limped towards me.

“Um…” I stalled as I tried to take in what was before me with a clear mind and glanced at the classier men behind him watching from his table. “Maybe. Uh, well, I really just need to know which direction to walk. I’m going here,” I showed him the address on my phone.

A clean-cut man with dark hair and a suit, maybe in his mid forties, ushered me over to the table where they had been sitting and pulled out a map. He started detailing me the route in which to walk. The sweat kept dripping into my eyes and I was blinking rapidly while I stared at the map trying to absorb what he was telling me in his broken English. Nothing was registering. Ropi was towering over me and shouting, (or singing) at his friend but all I caught was “taxi” again and again as I flinched from the dancing explosion of his limbs as he pointed left and right. He seemed to have ten arms and they worked like a disgruntled windmill as he spoke. I looked at the map again as the chaos bellowed around me and craned my voice to be heard, “Taxi, yes. It’s okay. I’ll just take a taxi. Thank you.”

Falling silent, they looked at me. The businessman folded up his map, and Ropi waved me on, “Yes, come.” Dragging his left leg behind him, he heaved his weight over to a beat up Volkswagen that matched the indigo of his stained shirt. He must have seen me hesitate as I looked the car up and down for any sign indicating that it was actually a taxi because he ushered me on, “I take you; I know where. Come.” I stretched out of my backpack as he was already trying to take it off for me and winced as it fell to the ground under his hold, surprisingly throwing his back out as every other driver before him. Being a gimp and massively overweight, I’ve already assessed that I can outrun him if needed so I get in the car.

Ropi does not know where he is going. He swerves from the left side to the right side with all the confidence and stupor of a mad drunk man, shouting at pedestrians and honking at cars alike asking where my hotel is. I’ve told him multiple times that I can’t understand a single world he’s saying but he sings me monologues never the less. Every current of excitement shoots out of his movements and voice like lightening bolts and I want to join in, having spent two hours on the train bottled up like a shaken soda can with the anticipation of seeing John after two and a half months. I had sat on my hands the entire way like an elementary school child in hopes of keeping myself from slapping every stranger across the face out of sheer joy. So I join Ropi, singing nonsensical Italian phrases, the only ones I remember, like “Capitolo due!!!” (literally translating to "chapter two") as I shoot my hands out the windows pointing at the buildings, letting my limbs spaz out at their own accord. Ropi looked over at me for a moment startled, his face dropping and I laughed at his expression and shrugged. He let out a bellow of laughter so deep and full, that the globe in his belly spun and shook violently against the steering wheel, jiggling the tires beneath us, with a smile so broad, pushing his chubby cheeks up past his eyelids and sealing his eyes shut. We joined together in hysterics for a few moments as I repeated my motions and sang things out the window that weren’t Italian words at all, mimicking the flow and dance of their sound so perfectly nevertheless. "AArreeeDDAA DeEEda." The words of the Italian’s hymns hadn’t come back to me, but I knew the melody by heart.

We finally find the hotel and I plant two abundant Italian kisses on either of Ropi’s gruff cheeks and handing him some money, send him on his way. I put my stuff in the room and sit downstairs at an outdoor café to wait for John, shaking my foot and fidgeting with my hands to keep from spontaneously combusting and exploding into shrapmal, impaling everyone around me. Picking up my beer, I bring it to my lips but my hands are shaking (that’s either the excitement or the withdrawal; hard to tell), so I set it back down. I think the heart palpitations might actually kill me, and then I see the red, white, and blue flag that is the eldest of my younger brothers rounding the corner at the end of the street. Standing a head taller than everyone in the crowd at 6'2" (Italian men are very small) with his sharp chin and light eyes facing the sky, scanning every building and taking in every new height of his first European adveture. I had almost forgotten entirely that it was The Fourth of July until this moment and I laugh. John is the most American person I know. He bleeds red, white, and blue and sneezes the Star Spangled Banner, so for him to leave the almighty US of A on Independence Day is a big deal. Albeit, not without slapping every other country in the face with the bald eagle on his way in. That was John.

I leave my drink and sprint down the street, jumping and weaving through every passerby. Almost a foot shorter than him, I can see his head searching the crowd, hearing my feet on the pavement and seeing my blonde ponytail bounce in between civilians. When the crowd breaks, so does his laughter as he sees me and stands still while I pole vault into his arms, crashing into him with such speed, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, that if he wasn't so much taller and stronger than me, I think the force would have knocked us both to the ground.  

I don't want to leave my cloud this morning, or ever for that matter, but I'm buzzing for Italy and my brother, John to meet me there. The breakfast chatter and birds have woken me and the fairy god mothers have left my laundry folded outside my door with a note reading: "Chambre 20" and a heart drawn next to it. I pack my bag and wait in the garden for the taxi. Everyone seems so sad for me that I didn't have a car to see the rest of Corsica and I don't have the words to explain to them that I never desired to venture anywhere from right here in this perfect little haven of rest. 

Of course, I get the same taxi driver as I had on the way up. Now that I can see him in the light, he looks rather harmless - maybe in his 30's, skinny with thin hair that's balding around the center of his odd shaped head. We drive in silence all the way down the mountain. Once in town, he slows and pulls beside every other taxi driver we pass, yelling his greetings to them and then adding, "Americano!" as he blatantly points towards or nudges me. Each driver lowers his shades for a good view in my open window, smiles with a reassuring nod, and spits some French/Corse/Italian nonsense. By taxi number three, I want this seat to open up and swallow me whole and I am visibly shrinnking to sink lower down below the window. 

The ferry to Livorno is a quick four hours and I wish I could only travel by boat forever.The sun on the deck is hot and the breeze is light. I sit right at the back over the wake and watch the Corsican mountains fade beneathe the waving Italian flag on our ship. I am so excited to see John and sitting dangerously close to the edge of the boat. It's all I can do not to fling myself off into the sea to release some of this unruly anticipation. 

Italy was my first traveling love and it's been six years since I left. Having fallen head over heels and completely captivated by the place, I left a part of my heart there that I never got back. My whole world had opened and changed while living there and I simply had to see the rest of this beautiful earth afterwards. Six years later, unable to supress that thirsty desire, that is exactly what I am doing and I have this country entirely to thank (or blame, depending on who you're talking to) for where I am today. 

The anticipation of standing on Italian soil once again can only be described as seeing your first love after years of being apart, wondering if all the same emotions and passions will still be there. No more than five minutes of stepping off in the port of Livorno, that beautiful familiar language rushing in and singing all around me, I smiled knowing that my dear Italia was exactly as I had left her and everything I remembered, with every old, familiar feeling washing over me and filling me just as before. 

I awake fairly early as the sun pierces through my bedroom curtains and get up from my white, fluffy cloud and walk to the window. Rubbing my eyes and yawning, I push the curtains aside and fling open large double windows. Gasping, I am frozen still in silence before I start laughing in disbelief. It is the most unexpected and breathtaking view of my lifetime to date. I am somewhere up in the sky, between two lush, green mountains, scattered with tiny pink villages below around them and opening up to the vast blue sea. I hadn't been able to see any of this last night, coming in blind with no idea where I was. 

Every morning, breakfast is served out on the terrace - an assortment of breads, cheeses and charcuterie. My usual routine becomes sitting out in the garden or swimming in the pool for awhile afterwards, before drifting back to sleep in my cloud back in the room. (I simply cannot even sit on this bed without falling asleep.) That first afternoon, I wake up from a nap with church bells ringing off the mountains and delicately making their way through my open bedroom window. This has to be the quietest, most peaceful place I have ever been. 

From the window, I see a small stone village with a church and about seven other buildings so I set out to explore. I walk down the winding gravel road as light as ever and the last time I can remember feeling this carefree, I was about seven

years old, singing while stealing flowers from neighbors' gardens. My headphones are blasting the most beautiful flute melody that feels like it was born here and everything is giving me chills despite the warm sun kissing my face and shoulders - the music, the view, the air. The beauty of this place is staggering. Water and mountains are the only things around me; and flowers are everywhere blowing in the breeze - pink, violet, yellow, coral, white - of every shape and size. Butterflies flutter past me from every direction. I'm singing now and laughing out loud, twirling in my dress as I walk, and I feel about five years old. 

I sit outside on a cliff terrace overlooking the valley and the sea and have a glass of sparkling Corsican wine. I am so high up that I am closer to the clouds than anything else and they dance around the mountain tops in whisps as the sun pierces through. A flock of joyful, singing swallows swoop down and fly past, so close to me that I think I could reach out and catch one. And I feel so light that I might inevitably take flight and join them.

(Thank you from the bottom of my heart to the most generous person I know, who booked this hotel for me and wouldn't take no for an answer. You know who you are.)

So here we are again, phone dead, new country, and hotel address written on my arm. Sitting on the ground outside the Bastia port, I await a taxi. It takes forever, but a car finally pulls up and I get in. 

The driver doesn't speak any English, so I show him my inner arm with the address and he laughs and setting his head back a bit to examine me, looks at me funny. We pull from the port and start climbing the unlit, winding roads up the mountain. Further and further we drive and I have one of those fears again that this guy may not be a taxi driver at all (suddenly realizing there is no meter) and he could just disappear with me into this darkness with my dead phone and my belongings. 

He notices me looking out the window down the edge of the cliff at the city lights below and pulls the car to a stop on the side of the road. Motioning to the view, he gets out, opens my door, and puts his hand out. (And now I know I am most likely not going to my hotel and this is most likely not a taxi driver.) I get out and look at the view with him, but all I can see are lights. Every thing else is blackness and I really can't appreciate it anyhow because my brain is now looking at fight or flight options. I back away from the ledge and get back in the car and he follows. We drive in silence the rest of the way. Up, up, up. Darker and darker. 

Just as the court room inside my head is ruling the verdict, I finally make out a wooden sign that reads "La Canoriche," and let out a huge breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I go to give him the 20 euros as I had been told, but he shakes his head and motions to 30. I try to haggle and explain, but now he's laughing at me because I'm speaking Spanish and we are on a French island. I hand him the 30 and get out. 

It's so dark, I can't see a thing but the lantern under the doorway. I get into my room, take the first bath I've had in months and sink into sleep in the most comfortable bed thus far. 

Nice is absolutely gorgeous and I curse myself for not even having a full day here. There are these little trees in the squares everywhere with pink wisher flowers and the water is painfully blue. I am reminded how the French builidings make me feel ... so creative and love struck and swollen in my soul. I forgot how much I love the South of France, distracted by the music and energy of Spain. There is so much beauty in this world that I simply cannot cope. Last night, I would have cut off my right arm to be home and today, I don't think I can ever stop living this way. 

It's overwhelming. All of it. The people, the strangers, loving and leaving new friends, room after room with stacked bunks, getting lost and then having to leave once you've finally found your bearings to a new place just to get lost and do it all over again. The late nights, the laughs, the language barriers. The long rides and sleep deprivation and filthy clothes. But the most wonderfully overwhelming of all is the beauty. It punches you right in the gut and knocks the wind out of you. And I fall in love over and over again with new places and have to tear myself to leave them, not knowing if I will ever touch them again. I think that nothing further could possibly be this beautiful and fill me this way. And I'm wrong. I'm wrong every time. 

Sometimes it hits me again out of nowhere... that this is my life and I am actually doing this. Living this dream I've had for so long. No need for bucket lists when you're on one. And I'm overcome with fits of giddy, childish laughter and joy. I'm sitting atop a ferry heading to Corsica and the crystal blue Mediteranean Sea stretches in every direction as far as I can see. I'm completely alone and I've never been so happy. 

This life. This one moment we have - it's ours for the taking. It's whatever we dare to make it. I know we've all heard that a thousand times before, but it's an entirely different thing to feel it down to your core. The more I travel and the farther I've come, that enticing myth you are promised on Daddy's knee as a child - "you can be everything and anything that you want to be" - becomes more and more real. A fable in America, a past-time dream meant for the priviledged or those who sacrifice all, is now scarily real for me. Anything and everything does seem perfectly possible. Every foolish and far away dream before is now 100% in my reach if I want it. This great big world that seems so scary when you're in your comfort zone suddenly explodes wide open with a million opportunities and paths as soon as you break out. It's opened itself up to me and is now bigger than ever before. And I realize that everything that I ever thought was scary really isn't that scary at all. 

Well, it was all very uneventful to be honest and not terrifying in the least. The train from Barcelona to Nice is extremely expensive and long and I found a Czech couple who currently resided in Nice but were on a weekend holiday in Barcelona and I asked them for a ride. 

Petr was tall and blue eyed and smiley. He was nice enough, although not very interesting, and we chatted here and there along the way. His girlfriend, Saakar (or something of the sort - surely spelled with dozens of symbols dancing off and about each letter like brail) was not, by any means, friendly; nor was she happy that I was coming along. She did not speak one word to me the entire six hour ride. She did not speak one word to anyone. She never turned around. Never looked at me once. I did manage to get a few quiet giggles out of her (that I thought I could make out from the back of her head below Petr's laughing, but I could be imagining that), throwing around some American digs and banter. But it was brief and over in no time. 

I couldn't help but contemplating this odd relationship amidst the silent hours. They didn't talk, or touch, or laugh, or play. They didn't do anything at all. No singing or story telling on this road trip. There wasn't an ounce of passion or companionship between them as far as I could see. 

Fifteen minutes into the journey, I realize I have to go to the bathroom but I am too afraid to ask, not knowing if this stranger is the furious type when he has to stop for a passenger or the acomodating type. An hour in, Petr stops at the gas station and I go to the bathroom and we share a cup of coffee and his girl friend remains stoic in the passenger seat. Three hours in, I am utterly starving. 

"So, um, do you guys eat?" I ask casually. 

"Yes, we do in fact eat," Petr laughs and stops off at the next exit. 

I'm begining to think that Sakkar is a robot and she doesn't need fuel or emotion to function, but she gets out of the car and eats with us, still without a word. It's all very strange and uncomfortable and I'm becoming increasingly disappointed because I was hoping to get a good story out of the experience and they aren't giving me much to work with. 

We finally get to Nice and Petr agrees to drop me off at my hostel seeing that it is now dark. I remember that he mentioned earlier that they live at the top of the mountain above the city. As we start climbing upwards, wrapping around the dark, steep roadways, I have this momentary (hopefully irrational) fear that they are, indeed, going to take me back to their home, slay me, and eat my remains. But they don't. 

The drop me at the hostel which is rustic and set in a garden half way up the mountain. It is full of obnoxious American and British young girls, a Muslim bent over on the floor saying prayers next to my bed, and three very old, very big women who apparently decided it was now or never to travel. I don't meet anyone here because I don't care to. I'm leaving in the morning and have no energy for hostel banter after the past month of it. I walk down the extremely dark, steep abandoned hill to town for a bank machine because they don't take credit cards, sit in the corner of the bar with a bottle of wine and my lap top open, which I'm not using but hoping will serve to ward off incomers. 

An hour later, a drunk 40-something year old man with a shit hairline walks over and asks if he can sit. I shrug and he talks incessantly while I stare at my computer. He asks me to join him for the hostel's Tango dance lessons before breakfast tomorrow and that's when I look up and say, "absolutely not." He wanders away shortly after, and when the wine is gone so do I. 

In no particular order ...

1.) The best thing about discovering Spanish was the literal translations. These people are so cute. To 'get sick' literally meant "I put on me the bad," and "to like something," translated to "it fell on me well." It just happened to fall on me and it did so well. 

2.) If you order in any restaurant that doesn't display the prices on their menu, you will get the "giddy" price, which is slang for "foreigner." A price that they will make up according to how giddy you appear to reap the the cost. Which is never too grievous because everything in Spain is cheap, but they will do it nevertheless. 

3.) America is cool in Spain. French people wouldn't be caught dead in anything that resmembles America, but you see more American flags in Spain almost than you do in America. Spanish girls are covered in them - jean shorts and USA flag t-shirts. They will wear anything that displays an American looking word (and I say American instead of English, because let's be honest, the Queen's English is anything but American.) They show off t-shirts with American words that literally mean nothing; like a green shirt that reads plainly "everything." 

4.) You can get your hair highlighted for 20 euros.

5.) Victoria isn't the only bitch with a secret. In Spain, the same store is called "Women's Secret," because we indeed, do all have them. 

6.) Gypsy has a severe negative connotation here. Do not, for any reason, declare yourself as one. 

7.) If Spanish people find out you used to be a professional American Cheerleader (or any type of cheerleader for that matter), you will watch them fall to pieces and lose their shit before your eyes. 

8.) In my next life, I better be a dude. Send me back as a lady bug and I will be suicidal. Everything about traveling as a man is easier and better. 

9.) The Portuguese are NOT Spanish. In fact, they would be hideously offended being lumped into this category, so let's hope that none of them are reading. Never have I met people so proud to be part of a country. They instantly list to you all the worldly things that they are responsible for that others took credit for - such as Tempora which they made up and Japan stole, and Christopher Columbus who most learn is Spanish but he is absolutely Portuguese. 

10.) In Germany, you have to pay for your radio and regular tv whether you use it or not. Forever trying to make up for their past mistakes, Germany is welcoming of all languages, tourists and cultures and the students study them all during their education. 

11.) People get paid to study in another country in Europe; and they visit each other on a whim. Denmark students have weekend trips in Spain. Germans drive to France for Lunch. And Spaniards take road trips to Portugal. You can travel such short distances and experience an entirely foreign culture and language. Ryan Air has flights cross borders for 20 euros and you can meet a vast array of international students in any European country from all over the world. Everyone speaks more than one language. In Portugal, they speak the most. You flip through menus by first picking out your language. 

12.) You can get a beer for 50 cents and a glass of wine for 80 and most every drink comes with food. Fresh fish or a selection of meats. The people in Spain drink Vermouth as if it's their job. Straight or on the rocks. By itself. 

13.) Hippies are referred to as "para floutas," literally translating to "dog flutes," because they are never without either. Also, the hippies are much different here. No flower power, prints, bright colors, flowing dresses, or head bands. No. Spanish hippies in Galicia dress in dark greens, browns, and blacks like anarchist grunge meets punk goth. Of course, the drugs and the music still bond them all together but it seems a much darker atmosphere. 

14.) Dogs are EVERYWHERE. Just roaming the streets, with no collars and mixing with the people, none of these dogs are spayed or neutered so the male genitalia drag on the floor and the new female mothers have swollen utters that do the same. No one seems to notice or mind - not the dogs or the people. 

15.) Children are also everywhere. Playing, laughing, screaming, climbing, throwing public temper tantrums and none of them seem to belong to anyone. Adults sit at outdoor cafes eating and drinking and paying them no mind. No one intervenes when the three year old gets rocked in the face with the soccer ball and topples over, or the seven year old girl is sitting in the middle of the square screaming in tears. They are just left to work things out amongst themselves. 

It's official. I am the worst traveller ever. No on speaks English in the Sevilla bus station and I end up booking a 16 hour bus to Barcalona for 100 euros when I could have taken a high speed train for 40 euros more at 5.5 hours. I try to return the ticket but the woman just keeps trying to book me a return ticket back to Sevilla. This was expected since I watched a Russian woman in line ahead of me nearly punch out the glass while throwing a temper tanturm, because they would not give her money back even though she purchased cancellation insurance. It's going to be a long one. 

Two hours before departure, I am informed of a little hippie town, Grenada, which is 4 hours out, where hostels are greenhouses with guitars and now I am dying to go there. I do all I can to switch my ticket (with help of the Spanish speaking Belgian), but it is a loss, so I suck it up and get on the Barca bound bus. Thinking I'll either make it the whole way or, mid losing my mind, hop out at some random town along the way and settle there for a bit. 

There is more space at least during the beginning of the trip and I lay down across four seats as John Legend serenades me to sleep. I wake up only 3 hours later (which is highly disappointing) when the bus stops for a break, which it does every few hours. I down 2 glass of Fino, and chain smoke a few rounds in hopes to cope for the next leg. 

The bus driver hates me, by the way. He's already told me off for smoking at a stop and grabbed my arm while yelling some Spanish things as I got back in the bus. I try to smile at him when we pass at rest stops but he just glares at me fiercely holding my gaze. I'm not sure what I've done to the man but doesn't look like mending it will be a possibility any time soon. 

I would most likely be racking up a two month phone bill on this journey should my data roaming be working but it isn't, so we are safe for now. The sun is setting over the mountainous east coast and everything is green and gorgeous and deserted. 

At the next stop, a massive amount of a man waddles his way past fleets of empty seats to sit in the back two next to me, and my bed for the night portion of the trip is gone. He breathes louder than I speak and the iPhone has gone dead so headphones to block him out are a loss. He exerts so much energy trying to find a comfortable position to lie down and ends up lying down with his head practically in my lap. I spend the next 10 hours in a semi-suicidal state staring out the window and trying to shut down my brain, while floppy over here snores profusely, blowing hot hair against my leg. 

I arrive in Barcelona in a zombie-like state at 8:30 am with no clue what day it is. I can't check in to my place until 1 pm, so I wander around aimlessly scoping out possible places to nap where people won't notice me. Barcelona is massive compared to the other places I have been in Spain - a proper, busy city. I don't think I like it very much; it feels like I could be in any other city in the world. But then again, I'm sure that about 82% of that has to do with the last 16 hours. A huge statue of Christopher Columbus pointing across the sea to the New World stands proudly in the center of a square and I scoff at Spain, remembering my Portuguese friends. There are modern art scultpures everywhere and a 50 foot steel lobster with a drawn on smiley face lurking high above me and with an outstretched claw as if he were welcoming me. After wandering with no direction at all for hours, I get massively lost and can't find the hotel again until 3 pm. 

Finally alone in a room for the first time in a month. And then I sleep for two days. 

WARNING

Viewer Discretion Advised. Very crude, very loud, and VERY British. Not for the winos or the sensitive of heart. In attempts to mask any offensive behvaior, I found that the story simply could not be written without it. And the story must be written, fams.

It also should be said that for most of the world, this entry will be in a different language. Bonnet language. 

Also, please read with a British accent. 

PART I: THE PROLOGUE

They were an eclectic group of misfits, a pack of stray dogs. It must have taken me all the twenty-five years I had growing up with brothers, not only biological but all of the guy friends I had constantly been surrounded by, to prepare me for the raunchiness of this group and to indeed end up living in the same room with them. But I loved it. I found their banter entertaining and their crudeness strangely endearing and the chemistry of the group entirely intriguing. If not simply for the fact that they were always laughing and singing; they were the happiest bunch I had ever come across. They were parasites, but harmless, little, loveable parasites if you will. A happy disease. Of course, the British accents didn't exactly hurt either. (They always seem to get away with everything.)

It could have been anyone really that had been sitting there in the hostel garden that night I arrived, but it just happened to be the Bonnet Boys. I put my bags away, showered, and walked down to the common garden, not knowing who or what I was getting myself into. From atop the stairs, I saw the only people out in the garden - a group of boys, a group of loud, racy boys. I said "hi;" they sang "hola" in unison; I pulled up a chair, and that was it. 

Of course, the entire first night I had no idea what they were saying, but I was mesmerized. They had their own language, songs, and dances. They would turn just about anything into a song, inserting the phrase into a three line, Greek Life sounding tune, complete with "la, la, la, la, la's." It wasn't long, however, before I picked the language up and eventually got swept away along in it. By the last night, I wouldn't remember how to speak without a British accent or stop using all of their funny words to describe everything. My lingo would never be the same. 

Before I officially begin, let me pause here to just introduce you to these wild cards. 

Mike ~ a bonafide hipster with a brown complexion, high socks, black rim glasses, his top button done always and hair on point. He was the loudest and closest to the leader of the group, if you were looking from the outside in. In constant competition (especially with Nigel) for the best hair, the best shorts, shoes, socks, or whatever he could find to win on, he kept a constant tally of who was in the lead. A photographer and a singer, he was an artistic type, but not your everyday creator. He had the biggest smile you'd ever seen. When he was drinking and happy (which was most always), his shoulders would start to dance of their own accord like he had little tambourines on each one, and his wrists would join in with the snare drum. Sitting alone, or chirpsing a bird, his dancing joints had a mind and will of their own and could not be stopped. 

Tudor (aka Tudes) ~ had the same smooth, brown complexion as Mike, but a shit hairline and a science that he had mastered - the Professor of Oodisms. Self proclaimed as "The Dumb" of the group, he firmly believed that you shouldn't swim after eating because a heavy stomach meant sinking and drowning was inevitable; that hanging a sheet over his bed would keep bugs out, and that condoms shouldn't be warn because, well, he didn't like them and that was enough (#Oodisms). When he was happy (which was again, always), he'd break out in his crab dance no matter who was around and it never failed to throttle me into fits of laughter. He had a habit of pressing his pointer finger and thumb together with his other three fingers raised (as if to say "a-ok") when he spoke, emphasizing each word (especially each "t") as if he were writing calligraphy in the sky. Professor Oode. Puffing his e-ciggarette at all times in attempts to quit smoking and panicking when it was not to be found. Writing smiley faces in the sky and sniping birds at closing time after hours of work from another guy. 

Nigel ~ the looker of the group, the "stud" and fitness instructor. Short but built, with piff hair that always had to be done, with every strand perfectly assembled into place. He was the complimentary addy feet dancer to Mike's snare drum wrists and tambourine shoulders and when they both came out together (every night around midnight), you couldn't keep a smile off your face even if the whole world was ending. Like Mike, he had to have the piffest shirt and outfit and had a collection of trainers that put every girl's to shame. He brought 6 pairs for 4 days (including a maroon, leopard print pair), and his suitcase was bigger than my 6-month back pack. He had the whitest teeth you'd ever seen due to a crest white strip addiction with a side dose of vanity and he was the king of selfies. Always with the oblique stances and the impromptu, "this is my jammmm," white girl dance, with one hand waving back and forth over his head and his hip popped. 

Rob ~ Nigel's twin brother was anything but, and it took me two days to realize they weren't pulling one over on me when they had said they were twins. The quietest and most reserved of the group, he didn't quite fit in with the loud and boisterous banter, but he didn't seem to mind too much. He was, after all, Nigel's twin even if fraternal, so he was part of the Bonnet Boy family. Constantly the brunt of jokes like everyone else, except Rob rarely stood up for himself, or at least not in the loud way the others did. He was gentle and kind and stood in the background for the most part and although he had a good heart, he was practical to the core and always there to bring anyone back down from the clouds, whether they liked it or not. 

Cork ~ the pale ginger of the gang. (Come on, every groups got to have one.) He had recently regained his confidence thanks to the guys and with no help from the ladies. Going on a twenty-seven month dry spell, he was the "re-virginized" of the group and the mission of the week was to get Cork laid. Either that, or he was gay - those were the options on the table. He had a rainbow colored knit sock that he would wear to warm his junk and proudly strut around the room striking poses that would give off the best angles of his freckly physique. One of his best assets was his round bum and on que, he was ready to pop up and show it off in a particular array of stances for however long he was asked to do so. 

Nippy ~ And then there was Nippy, and what on earth can I tell you about him to make him come alive on the page. He was the cutest, yet most repulsive person anyone has ever met. A big, loveable teddy bear with an honest, and yet undeniably hilarious, disposition that didn't make any sense. Soft shoulder kisses from Nippy throughout the night were never far; he would be standing next to any one of us and just bend down and kiss you on the shoulder without saying a word. But above all .... was Nippy on the beach. He would flop around in the waves, beached, head over feet, bum crack out in just his boxers and pop his adorable head up for air like a baby sea otter and then he'd fart the next minute and talk about motting a girl that just walked by. Nippy loved to mott. 

Right, so where was I? That first night ...

After a few jokes, a few beers, some tantalizing tales about Miami, and somewhere after twenty minutes of judging every article of clothing in the Mike vs. Nigel competition, others from the hostel started to flow out into the beer garden. Everyone, and I mean everyone remained on the other side of the garden away from these scumbags. Even their beckoning invitations to join and the songs could not tempt a soul to dare set foot in whatever it was that was happening over on our side. I noted briefly to maybe take a look later into my own psyche and why everything about this side of the garden drew me towards it and no one else. But it didn't bother me one bit; this was clearly the side I belonged on (no matter the possibly disturbing and subconscious reasons.)

After dubbing Mike and Nigel the "Dream Team," a title they took to immediately and put on like crowns, I accidentally brushed my cigarette against Nigel's knee, burning him (minimally I may add). 

"Allow me, Fam!!" He said as he swatted my hand away. 

He then urged me to singe the rest of my cigarette into Mike's knee while he wasn't looking, for obvious Dream TEam fairness, as well as inflicting shameless pain on his friend for the sheer hilarity of it. The problem with me is (and this is where we could delve even deeper into my issues) that as soon as he said it and I looked over to Mike sitting on my left, loudly telling an elaborate story to the group with a smile that took up half his face, I desperately wanted to do exactly what Nigel had dared me to do. And then without thinking, as if I didn't have a choice, I put the cigarette out right on the top of his knee. Well, this sent Mike into shrieks and the whole group into an uproar of laughter and praise. 

The rest of the night primarily consisted of trying to get Cork laid and sending him off after pep talks to go sit down with different groups of girls. Usually one of us would go in with him to toss him bones and pass assists, and tonight a very drunk, very staggering Nippy decided that he should be the one. Sloshing beer on their dresses, tripping over limbs and leaning down over the sitting girls with his face entirely too close to theirs and one eye closed, Nippy really did have Cork's best intentions at heart. However, Cork did not get laid that night. 

A few hours from when I had first sat down, mid conversation about something I can no longer recall, Mike looks at me quizzically, squints his eyes and then cocks his head back a bit as if he is studying me. 

"Holiday Guy?" He asks, first at me, then looking to Nigel and then to the rest of the group. 

Shocked, but pleasantly intrigued, they looked at each other and then at me with wide eyes and ssmiles, responding, "Holiday Guy!!"

Holiday Guy was a term the gang dubbed to a particular person they had met on each holiday they had been on together. They never knew how or when he would turn up, but one always did, and they bonded with each other instantly and forever. They were, of course, expecting their Lisbon Holiday Guy to present himself eventually, but not immediately on their day of arrival and certainly not a Holiday Guy with tits. No, that was a game changer. Thus began the five day, Lisboa adventures of the British strays and Holiday Guy. 

(COMING SOON: Part II - V ..... currently still under construction) 

In an especially joyful and light mood, I wandered down to the beach tonight with a dance in my every step. I felt like I could sing to every passerby, like a Disney princess movie, and it would all just be normal. The sun was setting magnificently and the surfers were glistening in it's remaining rays. The water had been drug back out and the beach stretched for miles. 

Of course, the most beautiful and awe-inspiring moments always present themselves when the devices with which to capture them are all left behind. My phone, camera, even my journal were all in my room. It was just me and the world and this would just have to remain encapsulated in my ever fragile mind.

I got to thinking then about just how fragile the mind is. The one fluctuating and not dependant thing that holds all of these beautiful untouched moments. A death, an accident, a brain injury, memory loss, old age ... it can all just disappear. Gone. 

So why wouldn't we share them all? Get them on paper. Write them down. Paint them. Sing them. Preserve them. And then I thought about why we do. 

I think that what most people fear more than anything, more than death, is being obsolete after their minds or bodies are gone. They want or need others to know what they saw, what they did, what they remember and to be witness to their lives. Because it makes it more real in a way. Although not really, but in our human smallness, it gives us something more permanent, something that will live on after us, if only in one other person's memory. It's a testimony that we have lived. It's why we create, build and share. Why we marry, procreate, and expand. It's our only shot at something infinite; the only record of our existance, proof that we were here. 

We want to touch this world and leave a mark - one that remains long after we do. It's why some people spend their whole lives protecting and building this earth so that it can serve future generations. It's even why we carve our names as lovers in trees, or bury time capsules. Because those signs- both of them- might be seen long after we are. And if we really boil it all down, I think even the greatest acts of selflessness in this realm, can be drawn back to this fear of human smallness. Of being forgotten. Being obsolete. Not impacting anyone or anything. And I think that's okay. It doesn't mean we are selfish. It keeps us acting, creating, helping, inspring; it's what separates us from any other species. We are the only ones aware of our mortality and with that, we desperately try to attribute part of that into some form of immortality. I recognize that there will always be those who deem this selfish or hopeless, but personally, I think it's beautiful. 

The train is about 4 hours long from Oporto to Lisboa (which, later, when I look back upon, will be a very missed, fast and easy luxury) and we finally pull up to my stop. Here I am rocking a hot mess of an outfit that in no way goes together, a tangled cat of curls on my head and 50lbs on my back; and this little platinum blonde tart in a satin glove of a jumpsuit as chocolate as her false lashes and Portugease skin, is struggling over 7 suitcases the same shade as her pink lipstick. 

I am again, blatantly confronted with how homeless my neglected appearance has become, which almost sends me into giddy fits of laughter. Never have I been so happy not to be juggling all the weight of beauty and worldly possessions that this hot young thing is. I help her get the 60 lb. bags off the train, handing them down to her on the platform one by one. I'm wondering if she's moving here and if so, for the love of God, why didn't someone drive her?? Then two mid-driff baring twigs of girls come barreling down the platform towards us. An english speaking one exclaims how it is going to be the best summer of their lives. This time I laugh out loud. 

Despite being so ambiguously frightful looking, four even more frightful cab drivers surround me instantly, balking in Portugease, poking me like crows. Where am I going and who is going to take me? I hop in a cab with a very smelly, old man that makes me feel like I am in pristine condition, and head to Costa de Capirica, a small beach town on the coast of the Pacific outside of Lisboa's city center. 

I am staying in a hotel for two days and for the first time since leaving France, which is a most welcomed break from the chaos of the exciting past 10 days. My hotel is called Mar e Sol, meaning "sun and sea," on Ruo do Pescadores, or "Fisherman Street" and I arrive covered in grime and sweat. The boy at the desk examines me with wide eyes, fearful that I might disrupt the pristine conditions he has just finished preparing. Once inside my AIR-CONDITIONED room, I drop my bags, take all my clothes off, and collapse on the bed. 

After the best shower of my life, I walk along the beach and watch the sunrise and the surfers. I decide that I must meet one and have him teach me how to surf. Restaurants in glass-like, open trailors line the beach and couples sit out on the rocks watching the orange sky as it fades over the dozens of surfers below. I eat dinner near the hotel and it is a lovely, romantic setting for one, complete with candle light and butler-like service. I order Spanish Risotto (before remembering I am not in Spain), and it is delicious. Pama ham, asparagus, and peppers smothered in cream, with a glass of Vihno Tinto. Completely stuffed, I walk through the little beach town looking in shop windows and outdoor displays of hats, bracelets, and sandals. And then I have the best night sleep since France - completely dreamless.