The light begins to fade on the streets of Venice and I can’t decide what’s more entertaining, the story of the lost tourist sitting at the table beside me, the thoughts in my head, or the whirlpool of my pink Bellini.
Tourist upon tourists wander by without a second thought while aching feet intersect with wanderlust and sit unsettled in the hearts of those who pass by. There are times in which I am exhausted of the traveling, the moving, and the hustling. The repetitive action of packing my bags reminds me too much of the monotony that is today’s husband, two kids and a dog grind called daily life. Have I just changed out one set of handcuffs for another? Am I just repeating the same story in a different location?
There is one glaring difference in particular, however between that repetition and this– these thoughts swarming in my head. These words, that which start as a slow drip when I first begin to travel- a clever thought, a scribble on the map, a short rhyme- quickly turns to trickle, to stream, to river, to tidal wave.
The reduction in the monotone that is small talk during “daily” life creates a void in which the creativity in me leaps to fill. I am not good with my written word. I will never write a piece achingly beautiful, but nonetheless I turn to written word when there is no ear to hear my voice. I explore the discovery of self in the discovery of my words. I dream of all the different persons I can yet become. And I sit.
I sit in the fading light in the streets of Venice dreaming of high heels and lipstick the color of my Bellini.