Nothing to write home about

On a not too distant Friday, I attended a party in a hamlet of sixty people. We drank Radler and ate goulash with thick slices of ham and chunks of white bread. We watched the bocce ball game beneath the full moon, and cheered with the old men when each team scored. We soaked up the magic as they heckled over points and bantered, loud and full of love.

On a Saturday we took a bus to the salt fields and walked along the green sea, stopping at a rocky stretch of shore to find heart shaped stones. I listened to this song until it had melted into the cobblestone streets. I let it wash me into a happy wilt atop my melancholic peninsular paradise. In the evening, we walked along the shoreline and collected a bachelorette party and three vacationing italians. We all drank homemade lemon schnapps and watched the italians teach tango to the bride beneath the streetlamp. Later we drank Gin and Tonics as we listened to a rock & roll cover band at a bar by the sea. A man let us share a table with him. He drank red wine and smoked while informing us in sincere tones that hard work pays off.

On a Sunday, we braved the wind. Inside of a frigid bus stop, we jumped up and down and sang to each other. Escaping from the cold we sat in a gas station coffee shop. She taught me about euros. Bogdan arrived, bright eyed, wearing his clogs and his wild blonde dreadlocks. The smell of cows filled the room upon his entrance. He whisked us away, and we cooked dinner and drank tea and after everyone had gone to bed we spoke about our homes and our insides and the brilliant thing we were embarked upon.

On a Monday, we picked rocks from the potato field.

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