#i have a 5 hour train ride to get to the airport and THEN a 10 hour flight home

[asummersday]

on a scale of 1 to 10 how bad of an idea would it be to try to write and post chapter 6 by the time i move out of dorms (next week)

[tardis--dreams]

I'm so obsessed with that concert that i don't even have enough brain capacity to stress about everything around it

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

prompt 8 and 14 (shy readers first time) and moms bsf wanda

You Were Red and You Liked Me Because I Was Blue

Mom's bsf!Wanda Maximoff x shy!innocent!Romanoff!fem!reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, age gap relationship (W=35, R=20) W calls herself Mommy, use of pet names, W fingers R

A/N: I worked on this all day while I didn't feel good and I have a killer headache at the moment so if I missed any warning I'm sorry. I can't think anymore.

The air was cold, without snow falling to distract you it felt unbearable to be waiting for your ride back home for break. Unfortunately you mom was off on a work trip until 3 days before Christmas so instead her best friend, Wanda would be picking you up.

Normally Wanda would have also been preoccupied this time of year, but since her and Vision finalized their divorce and custody of the boys, Vision would be getting them Christmas break first.

You couldn't imagine what that must be like for Wanda. Suddenly after 10 years of family tradition she was alone again and Wanda being alone was never a good thing. You'd known Wanda for a long time. After Natasha helped take down the red room she'd taken you, the youngest widow on the ship under her wing. The day you gained Natasha as a mom, you also gained an aunt Yelena. You had always heard stories of the famous Black Widow that got away and you'd seen Yelena training with others the greatest child assassin the world has ever known. Though you know her now as Auntie Lena who eats Mac and cheese straight out of the pot.

You're pulled out of your thoughts when you see the familiar red subaru ascent. Wanda pulled up with a smile as you opened up the trunk to set your luggage in before quickly getting in the passenger seat with a shiver. Wanda pulled you into her arms, your body instantly heating from her contact.

“Hi sweetheart. How was the flight in?” She asked near your ear, making your heart skip a beat as you pulled back, trying to calm your body down.

“It was fine. Better than having you drive five hours to come grab me.” You told her as you put on your seat belt.

“I wouldn't have minded a 5 hour road trip with you sweet girl.” You bit the inside of your cheek at her words, choosing to stare out the window as she pulled away from the airport.

With Wanda's help you brought your luggage into the house and headed to your room to finally lie down and stretch out. The flight was only an hour and a half and the car ride back was about a half hour. You had barley acknowledged Wanda when she said about her starting on dinner instead choosing to go shower and clean yourself up.

You'd been told that even though you're an adult your mom wanted Wanda there with you. She said it was so you could keep an eye on the other. For Wanda it was so you'd stay out of trouble and for you it was to keep Wanda company. Natasha knew what it was like for Wanda to be alone.

What you and Natasha didn't know though was Wanda had fawned over you since she met you. When Natasha first introduced you and Yelena you always hid away. A little mouse making little to no noise as you moved. Even your thoughts were quiet to Wanda. It was something she found solace in around you. She knew what had happened to you and the other widows. Though you were next step of perfecting what Drekovy wanted out of the widows, total control they had perfected and for you, the only survivor of your age group, an enhanced super soldier serum. It gave you all the same enhancements as Steve and Bucky, but you stayed small, unassuming so no one ever saw you coming.

“Y/N! Dinner's ready sweet girl!” Wanda called up as you looked over yourself in the mirror, the scars lining your arms, shoulders, chest. They were everywhere.

You took the stairs two at a time, hair still damp, but Wanda's cooking smelt too good to keep her waiting. She looked up from moving things from the counter to the dining table. Natasha always used to have these ‘family meals’ where her parents, Yelena, Wanda, Vision, and the boys would come over. They stopped happening when Wanda and Vision decided to get the divorce. A smile was on Wanda's face,

“I made your favorite. Help me move it over to the table.” You happily helped out so the two of you could eat dinner together.

As Wanda was cleaning up and insisting that you go relax on the couch and get a movie ready you watched her from the couch, forgoing a movie and putting on The Office instead. You needed the background noise because to you your thoughts felt so loud that Wanda must be able to hear you if you didn't have something distracting her.

As she finished up and sat next to you she gave no indication of hearing your thoughts which she often did to those around her. Her arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against her as if you were two magnets. You bit the corner of your lips trying to watch the show.

You knew Wanda was experienced obviously, she has twins. You on the other hand haven't even gotten the opportunity to kiss a girl or a boy or anyone because from the day you met Wanda all you ever wanted was her. You'd never tell her that though.

She was with Vision when you met her nearly 13 years ago. With everything that happened after that with Thanos and then defeating him without the loss of half the population you could just live life normally for the first time.

Wanda's hand found your thigh, rubbing gently as she watched the show, one the two of you have watched multiple times over the years. You enjoyed sitcoms like she did along with being introduced to reality TV which is just a guilty pleasure really.

“W-Wands…” your voice was barely a whisper and Wanda pretended not to hear you. Not even when you started squirming under her touch as her hand grew closer to your hot center. Her hand squeezed you as you let out a little whimper. “Wands…” you tried again, trying to be louder, but you couldn't. Once again your plea goes unacknowledged as her pinky brushes against your clit, your hands fly down to her wrist. She finally looks at you. You don't dare look at her.

“What's wrong sweet girl?” She asks so innocently as if she has no idea what she's doing.

“W-Wands…I…you…” you fumble with your words. Her other hand reaches your chin, forcing you to look at her.

“What about us sweet girl?” You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. She pulls you onto her lap, her hands resting on your hips. “Just watch the show sweet girl. Let Mommy play.” You felt like fireworks went off in your stomach. Sure you'd heard the boys call Wanda Mommy and yeah you'd heard her call herself Mommy over the years, but never in the tone she just used and never directed at you.

You felt like everything on you was burning except for Wanda's hands that were always cold and clad in rings. You did as told keeping your eyes on the screen until you felt her hand push past your waistband. Your hands once again grabbing her wrist, not because you didn't want her to, you really wanted her too. You were nervous.

“W-Wands…I've never…” Wanda moved forward, tilting her head to look at you.

“Not ever at college?” She questioned. You shook your head.

“N-not even a kiss…” you admitted. Wanda's hand leaving your shorts and moving to your face.

“These precious lips haven't kissed anyone else?” You shook your head, “So I'll be your first?” She asked pulling you closer. All you could manage as your heart pounded was a soft ‘mhmm’ before her lips touched yours.

As her lips meet yours, it's a gentle yet electrifying sensation, sending waves of warmth cascading through you. Wanda's touch is tender, guiding you through this unfamiliar territory with ease and patience. With each fleeting moment, you feel yourself melting into her embrace, the world around you fading into the background.

When Wanda pulls back, there's a brief moment of hesitation, as if time itself is holding its breath. You find yourself lost in her gaze, a mixture of emotions swirling within you – anticipation, vulnerability, and a newfound courage. Slowly, a soft smile tugs at the corners of Wanda's lips, her eyes sparkling with tenderness.

With a gentle brush of her fingers against your cheek, Wanda whispers words of reassurance, her voice a soothing melody in the stillness of the room. And as you lean into her touch, a sense of peace settles within you.

The night carried on without Wanda trying to slip past your shorts instead she kept stealing kisses late into the night before deciding it was time for bed. It was when you moved you could feel just how wet you'd before and you freeze, your thighs smacking tightly together. Wanda stopped, a tug on your hand.

“What's wrong sweet girl?” She looked back at you, confusion etched on her face.

“It…its..icky…” you squirmed and Wanda smirked, taking two steps towards you.

“Don't worry my sweet girl,” she tilted your head up, “Mommy is going to take good care of you.” Her breath against your lip, her voice sweet and thick with her accent, the one you heard all those years ago. Your legs want to turn to jelly.

Wanda wasn't expecting you to stay quiet once her fingers slipped past your wet folds, but you did. Little breathy moans, small whimpers, tiny pleas fell past your lips as your face burned and your eyes screwed shut.

“Don't close your eyes Detka. Look at me.” You could only obey with her voice sounding the way it did. You looked at her, she smiled at you and only picked up her pace.

You squirmed and felt like you were going to burst as you whimpered and tried to get away, but she held you there. You tried closing your legs, but she held them open.

“Open your legs Detka. I wanna see you.” Her nails dug into your thigh.

“F-feels weird…” you squeaked out.

“You're gonna cum for Mommy it'll make you feel better. Go on. Let it happen.” As if your body was waiting on her word, that coil inside of you snapped. Your back arched as your eyes rolled back. “That's a good girl…Mommy’s good girl.” Her fingers slowed down before leaving you. Your eyes closed but soon enough Wanda was helping you sit up.

“Water sweet girl. Take a few sips.” You did as told, knowing Wanda always knew best. When she felt you had enough she tapped your cheek and you let go.

She helped you clean yourself up, the cool towel feeling nice against your hot skin and then into pajamas which only consisted of an old band t-shirt of Wanda's and a pair of your panties. As she got the two of you settled into your bed, holding you against her chest. Her fingers moved through your hair as your eyes began to flutter she spoke,

“We're going to have a lot of fun until your mom comes home.” You smiled against her skin. You almost hoped she wouldn't be home for Christmas if it meant more time playing like this with Wanda.

[lizardho]

I think the worst day I had as a missionary is hard to pin down – for comedy bad day stories, I like to talk about my cute companion who ripped three pairs of pants in one day because his ass was so fat. Literally, two in the morning, we missed 3 appointments in the afternoon because people kept cancelling on us, and we ended up far away from home visiting “Less Actives” in the downtown area. We find a family who says we can come in once their dad get home, and we sit down to wait for the dad to get in and RIIIPPP goes the third pair of slacks this man wore that day. I hand him my suit jacket and he wraps it around his waist like a bashful adolescent who just started his period at an inconvenient time. We catch a ride home on a bus and ended up home an hour early. He cried for like 30 minutes while stitching up his pants, and I got to rest a lot more than expected that day. We ordered a 4-cheese pizza and went to bed early that night, having walked probably 5-6 miles that day knocking doors and getting turned away.

Another bad day was the day the Mexico City Temple was re-opening. It was a funny experience for me because the evening before I was contacted by the Mission President and told that an elder in our district had confessed some serious sins to him and that those sins precluded him from going to the temple. The MP told me that nobody in this elder’s ward could get time off to babysit him so he was begging one of us – I didn’t want to go to the temple, it was a crappy way to spend a P-Day in my opinion, so I told the MP I’d do it. I spent the day eating popsicles and napping with an elder who, in between Bolis and naps, would shakily and tearfully confess that no fewer than half of his companions had secret phones they used to watch porn, hire prostitutes, and buy drugs. This was bewildering to me since I had been Trying So Hard my whole mission and had always felt inadequate, and these elders who were doing better than me and more respected than me were somehow out here fucking, doing drugs, and jorkin’ it.

I was actually in a “Punishment Area” at the time because in my last area one of my life-threateningly attractive companions had gone into the homes of widows to repair their electrical wirings (he was a trained electrician prior to going on a mission.) Being alone in the home of an 80-year-old widow with failing lights was “against the rules” to the extent that me mandaron a la goma, and some handful of guys I’d been told to view as role models were out here breaking actual laws and shit. Of course, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was in this area because of the Deep Evil that Lay Within My Heart (wanting to kiss Elder Electrician on his stupid himbo lips) but my MP could not have known that, just like he didn’t know that the guys he was making Zone Leaders were getting their dicks sucked and snorting cocaine. That honestly felt outrageous to me.

I feel like the stereotypical “worst day” of a mission is the last day – they take you to the airport in a big van, all melancholy and nostalgic. We sang on our drive to the airport – elders and sisters tearfully sang or hummed hymns together. I was deadpan the whole time, it was such a relief to be going home. For me the worst part of the day was the relief – the release of pressure. The pressure to perform, to be “on,” to be at your best, is omnipresent for elders. I was the only person flying to Phoenix, so for the first time in two years I felt a release from that pressure. Nobody was scrutinizing me, I no longer felt that every thought, action, and feeling was being evaluated and judged as a sign of my true character. It was hard to realize, a the pressure let up, that I had been holding all that weight for two years without knowing when it had started. I remember getting confused in Customs and needing someone who spoke Spanish to talk to me because I kept forgetting words in English. I remember getting home and my family waiting for me and feeling like it was all finally done, finally over, I could finally breath. It didn’t feel bad, but it did feel heavy. And it definitely was not the worst day of my mission.

The actual worst day of my mission, though, was about 5 months in. At the 6-month mark I was expected to make a long trip down to an area of town near La Basilica de Guadalupe to submit my visa paperwork, and the mission office had sent me an extra $500 MX to use for transportation costs. When I withdrew the money they had sent for the month, I noticed it was higher than expected. My companion, a senior companion and district leader, had the cell phone. He was talking to another elder while he waited for me to withdraw my monthly deposit. I approached and asked if I could use the cell phone to call the mission office, as I had questions. He said “no,” and ignored me. I waited until the conversation ended and asked again, and again, angrily, he said, “No.” I said “Elder, relax, I just need to call the mission office to see why they sent me more this month than usual.” His face turned red as he realized other elders were watching the exchange occur. He handed me the phone, I called and was told the money was for transportation costs, and laughingly returned the phone to my companion. He took it, told the other elders he needed to tie his shoe but they could head on over to the District Meeting, and waited until they were out of eyesight. Once that was done, he grabbed me hard by the wrist, dragged me into a hidden corner out of earshot from others, and said, “If you ever disrespect me or my authority again I swear to God I will kill you.”

I was actually shocked. This guy had spent the last month and a half being SUPER nice to me, so I thought he was kidding and I was just confused. I laughed and said “Haha, yeah, your authority over the cell phone is sacred,” and tried to walk away but he didn’t let go of my wrist. He pulled me back and said “I will literally slit your throat if you ever talk to me like that again. As senior companion my authority over YOU is sacred, and I will not let God be mocked by you.”

I realized that he was serious. Like, actually threatening-my-life serious. I could see it in his eyes, I could feel it in the way he squeezed tighter on my wrist. In actuality, the idea seems laughable now. The guy was absolutely chickenshit. He cried if his shits were too hard, he couldn’t end a human life, but I still didn’t let myself fall asleep first for the rest of our time together. And I still hid the two knives we had in a different area while he was showering the next morning.

If I’m being honest though, even that wasn’t the worst day of my mission. That was bad, and each subsequent time he told me he was going to cut my throat for minor infractions against his God-Given Authority Over Me (like not wearing a belt for morning scripture study, or not taking the path he thought was best to get to a lesson) was a bad day. Every P-Day where he read my emails over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t telling my parents about how he was treating me, every day he told me that the ward members would never believe me over him, every day he put me down in front of other elders and they laughed in agreement, every day he was in a bad mood and took it out on me was a bad day. But the worst day was the day I told the mission president about it. I told him about the threats to my life, his temper, his physical abuse, hiss manipulation and rule-breaking, and the mission president told me “The time to tell me this was 6 months ago. The time to forgive him and focus on your own failings is now.”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt as confused or betrayed as I did then. Like, man oh man, that was a rough thing to hear, but as the day went on I kept feeling more and more confused and scared – had I misinterpreted everything? Had I miscommunicated something in telling the story? Had I not been objective enough in recounting the threats against my life? Was it true that a senior companion actually had the authority to hurt me if I went against his authority? Was I wrong the whole time? I had no idea, to be honest, but it was bewildering.

Knowing now what I wish I had known then, I would have done things differently. But in the moment, on a mission, knowing that my biggest reason for going on a mission was the hope that the Spirit of God, which hymns told me burns like fire, would burn the faggot out of my heart. I think I felt like I deserved it. Like somehow that elder knew the evil I was hiding and felt compelled by God’s power to hurt me. I think that’s what made it so hard to defend myself in the moment – I did not have that problem with other elders. The companion who told me we were gonna wrestle to settle an argument lost three consecutive matches and pouted about it for like a week. The elder who threatened to punch me for making a joke at his expense got knocked on his ass just for raising his fist. But this elder got into my head first, and that made it hard to fight against it. Instead of fighting against it, I just silently lived with actual, verifiable, diagnosed, by-the-book, DSM-5-TR Posttraumatic Stress Disorder because I thought I deserved it. It took consistent supervision of my clinical work revealing countertransference with Male LDS clients (I consistently discussed addressing shame in a client’s presentation where no shame or discomfort had been reported), an awkward conversation with @inbabylontheywept after an even more awkward dinner with a cousin who vaguely reminds me of that companion, and a bad acid trip where I had visceral flashbacks to my mission, before I was able to realize that I was living with a pain that was as abnormal as it was unnecessary.

Even once I realized it, even once I got help, it was hard. I remember telling jokes about what happened to my therapist and seeing her jaw just…drop. She said she didn’t know it had been that dangerous for me. The session ended and he sent me the PCL-5 (a good, evidence-based, highly face-valid measure for PTSD) and some other measure for dissociative symptoms and I was like “Girl, I just took this class, I know what you’re trying to measure and this ain’t it.” I reported my symptoms accurately and was fully prepped to confront her the next session. She showed me my scores and the norms used, and I was like “Oh fuck, this looks really bad on paper,” and she was like “Yeah, I can’t imagine living like this” and I just sobbed for most of that session. We ended up doing 9 months of TF-CBT and ACT (largely because I am a terrible and uncooperative patient, realistically I think I could have been done in like 5-6 months if I wasn’t so stubborn) before I was discharged from treatment successfully.

The thing that was so weird about starting therapy for PTSD was that it made things feel worse for a while. I started taking edibles a lot more. I started behaving differently around family members and Mormons. I started being outright hostile to elders I could see. It took about 3 months before I could see the missionaries and not have an actual fight-or-flight response to their presence. I think the way I had made it a far as I did without getting treatment was by repressing the thoughts, feelings, and memories that made it all hurt, and a soon as I let them just be there it was like all the confusing aching hurt came back. The first few months of therapy were just spent expanding the amount of time I could feel that hurt before turning to other means (like dissociation, cannabis, repression, etc.) so I could actually address the experiences without crashing the rest of the day. It was hard. I know I ended several sessions sweating a LOT from the exertion it took to just let the feelings happen. By 6 months, however, I could go into a church building without blacking out from panic. By 9 months I could sit in the same room as elders without sweating and shaking like a chihuahua on Adderall. 3 months after therapy and me and my supervisors noticed that my work with Mormon men had improved substantially. 6 months after therapy and I was able to begin writing anonymous stories online. Now, about two years after completing therapy, I feel like I can talk about it without needing the cloak of anonymity, and that is empowering.

Again, I am not sure why I’m typing these stories out – they’re not fun to write, I don’t love that my family can find these posts, but I guess I just like to remind myself and others that it can always get better. That mind numbing platitude, the old thought-terminating cliché that “it gets better, just power through it” doesn’t give enough credit to how much it hurts to get through it, but it does get better. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. The triggers can go away with time, great effort, significant expense, and a lot of discomfort. The world can feel safe again, the hurt can feel bearable, that nagging worry that I might have deserved this, or that I did something wrong, can eventually go away too. It’s not easy to do it, and I have an incredible respect for the patients of mine who can pull it off, but it is undeniably as doable a it is difficult. If this story resonates with anyone, if it feels close-to-home, if these experiences feel shared, just know that the relief I talked about can feel shared too. Know that it’s worth it to get the help, that you deserve the help, that you deserve to live a life that doesn’t hurt you, that you deserve to be a full person and not a living prison for the pain and memories. Know that healing yourself does not involve extending forgiveness to Them, whoever They are. That the pain you felt will not be made less important by making the pain less potent. Know that taking care of yourself now is, in a way, taking care of yourself then. And Please, with a capital P, take care of yourselves.

Thank you to my family, especially my immediate family (special shout outs to @flowerologists and @inbabylontheywept) for the support and patience with me as I dealt with this.

Thank you to my therapist, Jordin Borques, who I recommend highly to anyone seeking trauma therapy in Arizona.

Thank you to my wife, @cintailed, for being the push that got me into therapy, and for taking care of me at my worst and still being here with me.

Thanks to my mission president for being such a colossal disappointment to Christianity that my departure from the church was inevitable.

And a general thanks to the queers for being so cute and making life worth living, even on bad days.

[ceasarslegion]

Now that I'm on a 5 hour train ride before my airport run I can outline a few thoughts about America I've had over the last week:

-everything is so big. Like canada far beats you guys in regards to raw land mass but there's like 12 of us up there. You guys really minmaxed how much you can fit into one place. Meanwhile you leave an urban center in canada and it's just nothing for the next half hour upon which you hit a gas station warning that the next ones not gonna be for another 2 hours so fill up now

-Ive seen more Amish people in my like 4 days in upstate NY than I have in my entire life before now

-ive also seen more confederate, trump, and general American flags in the last 4 days upstate than in my entire life before now. NYC was not that bad. Are you guys okay down here

-why do you have war vets advertised on street lamps

-why do you put your flag on EVERYTHING... im pretty sure there's a part of your constitution that says you're not supposed to do that lmao??

-i bought a big gulp with my last few USD bills yesterday. It gave me a nuclear level tummy ache but the hubris of having that much pop for 2 dollars made it worth it. I get the appeal of Big Drink now

-I was asked how I want my burger cooked when I went for a good ol' american cheeseburger. You guys are just raw dogging rare ground beef here like e coli can't touch you. There was a burger that had mozzarella sticks on it on the menu. Your frankensteinian approach to food captivates me

-i hate how you have 1 dollar bills here. That's wrong to me. 5 is the proper place for bills to start. To me. But the CAD to USD exchange rate is HEAVILY weighted in your favour so it's whatever I guess. Your grocery prices make me want to scream, cry, and throw up in that order. Canada's not much better but at least the prices have the same number on them in a comparatively worthless currency

-there is something so capitalist about this country. Every second of my day I am being blasted with ads from every flat surface. At least we don't have ad screens in our taxis???

-I bought an Arizona tea flavour we don't have in canada and upon glancing at the nutrition label it had 84% of my daily sugar intake in it. If that's what your convenience store iced tea is like I think whatever sweet tea is would just kill me

-I think the guns in Walmart are perhaps contributing to the way the tankies on this webbed site think guns are cool and not dangerous at all. My god I was uneasy seeing that shit

-i got a big box of american sugar cereal that we dont have in canada and they can pry it from my cold dead hands at the airport I'm qualified to work our TSA checkpoint and I know damn well it's allowed to go in the case of personal consumption this shit fucks so goddamn hard

[sgiandubh]

He's been in Los Angeles since Tuesday. Work friend saw him in Malubu Tuesday night. She said he was with a couple people no mention of Caitriona.

Dear Tuesday Anon,

I am sorry to pop your balloon here, but I'd be reserved on this. It could fit, but barely.

You all know I am terrible with timelines, but here is my take on things:

Sunday 28th, red carpet in Ostende, Belgium. Afterparty, etc. Perhaps not the best idea to pop in a car all'alba/at daybreak for an almost 5 hour ride to Paris.

Monday 29th, not much. We can speculate, but I would need an Advil. Most probably on this way to Paris. I doubt the Eurostar (the train formerly known as Thalys) was worth a Brussels detour and, while they used to have an Ostende-Paris direct link, it was dropped off around 2015. Why take a 90 minutes' detour (119 km!) to get to the Bruxelles Midi Train Station and hop on the Paris direct Eurostar link for the 90 minute ride, when you could only add (roughly) an hour by car and leave directly from Ostende?

I am immediately having visions of the horrendously impractical hullaballoo at Bruxelles Midi and to me, it's a firm no. @margareth-lv 's guess of a direct car trip is the most logical one and I am sticking with it. Paris pic was posted on Wednesday morning and he was staying at the Hôtel Lutétia, as I heavily hinted in my post (it used to be the Nazi Abwehr/Military Intelligence HQ during World War II). Probably one of the corner suites (angle of rue de Sèvres and Boulevard Raspail), hotel has a very good seafood restaurant, too.

Everything fits: the outside view, the reel/story angle. On my screenshot, x marks the spot on the map and the arrow, the outside view of the corner suites. I should know, it was my playground, many moons ago:

It is possible the reel was taken Monday evening upon arrival, but for being intimately familiar with Parisian nights, my best bet is on Tuesday morning, very early (jogging? leaving?). Just an intuition, and I could be wrong and I am ready to correct and edit, as we go.

We then assume a direct CDG-LAX flight. Since it's not possible to check past flight schedules, we work with a random February Tuesday. First and Business class yield different results (Shipper Mum, a former airline executive, helped me with those over the phone: hi, mum!).

Traveling First Class (very possible, damn expensive, but money is no object and Frequent Flyer mileage - always redeemable):

Traveling Business Class (reasonably possible and two more options):

Factoring in arrival/border/luggage procedures and city/airport, then airport/city transfers, it's not impossible, but to any normal human being who was Batman only on stage (even very fit)... a bit of a stretch.

This is my take on your info. Please don't take it personally (or at least try). I simply think he might have arrived in LA yesterday, Thursday, when the Los Feliz pic was taken, with his luggage in tow.

But you know what, Tuesday Anon? One thing I am sure of, is that this is exactly what he wants us to do, right now. Cue in the Yellow Ski Outfitgate, for fun. Schuss on top - that was a blatant von Trapp latergram and my mind immediately pictured a sidesmile.

At any rate, don't be a stranger. I answered you with all the care and caution in the world. And thank you, whoever you are. It was a fun phone call to Bucharest and Mom, who is laughing like a drain and told me I was probably bonkers.

[pussydestroyer10110]

I LOVE ELIO AND WHEN I SAY LOVE I MEAN LOOOOVE

Timothèe Chalamet was such good casting for Elio and I can proudly say I've read the book and watched the movie (this is fucking astonishing because I normally lurk around the internet)

There's barely any of these so I'll make one myself

•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

ELIO PERLMAN X MALE READER

•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

Summary: You take the place of Oliver. Elio is 18, you are 20. This takes place in the part of the movie version where Oliver leaves and Elio is left heartbroken but you however realise you can't live without the love of your life so you drag your ass back to him.

—————

Have you ever heard of the phrase distance makes the heart grow fonder? Well in your case that statement is very much true.

You'd just arrived at the airport and your flight was due to be boarding any minute yet you had a sickening feeling in your gut with every step you took closer to that gate. You were about third in line, your passport open on the page with your picture, when suddenly tealisation hits you like a freight train.

This was wrong.

You shouldn't be here.

You should be with him.

So you closed your passport and bolted murmuring 'excuse me' every time someone got in your way because you were now a man with a mission. The wheels of your suitcase could barely keep up as they groaned from your frantic dragging, it was now that you were thanking the lords above that you only travelled with one item of luggage.

You made your way into the main foyer and ran towards the main entrance trying to flag a taxi.

"Scusi, do you need help?" A small woman asked from the side of you seeing your struggle of trying to get a taxi.

"Yes, I need to be in Crema as soon as possible but none of them seem to notice me." You say with a pitiful tone laced with spite.

"Crema?" She asked.

"Yes, I need to visit someone very special to me before it is too late." You reply looking downcast.

"I am going to Crema, I will give you a lift." She said sympathising with your unfortunate situation.

"Really! Thank you so much I'll be forever grateful!" You say in disbelief of this womans generosity.

She just smiles and nods her head. You couldn't resist and wrapped your clumsy frame around her in a loving hug, she laughed and patted your back.

"Come on we must leave if we want to make it by the end of today" She demands ushering you towards the car.

You place yourself in the passenger seat as she gets in the drivers and quickly pulls out of the hellish car park. Your leg bounces up and down in nervous excitement. What if he never forgives you for leaving? What if you were just a summer fling?

What if he didn't want you to return?

"Tell me about them" She says.

And that's how you spend the seemingly never ending journey, rambling on about the boy you had fallen in love with in a scarily short amount of time. The conversation wasn't completely one sided as she tells you about a husband she has waiting for her in her small residence in Crema and how she's been so excited to see him and her little boy - Lèon.

You ride was filled with a love sick aura as you discussed those who you loved dearly and she didn't even blink when you mentioned your lover was a boy. By the end of the journey you'd made a new friend.

The beautiful place of Crema began to appear with its trees lined paths and cobbled roads, outside was nearly dark now as the last 5 hours had been pure travelling with your new companion. She drive the car through the quiet streets before she reached the dusty path that had begun to feel like home over this summer.

She stopped the car and turned to look at you.

"Go in there and you tell that boy you love him and if no one accepts you here come to mine and I'll gladly make up the spare bedroom." She says smiling widely at you.

You lean over and hug her tightly.

"Thank you so much, you don't know how much this means to me." You tell her.

Before you could say anything else though she shooed you out the car wishing you luck.

Nerves started creeping in along with all the negative outcomes and scenarios playing on repeat through your mind as you approached the doors of the Italian villa. Your hand clenched into a fist - your knuckles pale - and knocked on the door thrice.

The sound of rushed footsteps and the noise of blanketed voices talking in Italian caused you to stand up straight with a nervous smile etched on your lips. The door opened and the woman known as Mrs Perlman or as she insisted you called her Anella, had her face turned away from you still in conversation with Mr Perlman.

As soon as she turned her head towards you she let out a gasp and then smiled widely pulling you in for a big hug.

"What are you doing here (___)!?" She said happily.

You were unsure of what to say.

"I ..... couldn't leave?" You said with anticipation.

"(___) my son is in love with you and if you are in love with him then I give you my blessing" She poke quietly and you couldn't help but let tears begin to pool along your water line.

"Go, he's in his room, he hasn't stopped crying since you left." She told you.

With that you bolted up the stairs running towards the door that you'd acquainted yourself with, knocking gently.

"Leave me alone" A voice that sounded almost like a whimper said in Italian.

You turn the handle and peak your head around the door seeing Elio's thin form curled in the bed you used to sleep in, your shirt clutched tightly in his hands.

"Go away" His voice was so tired and fragile.

You went to the bed perching yourself in the space by his upper body. You saw the redness of his cheeks and the paths of the tears leading from his closed eyes, it broke your heart to see his agonised body lying tense in front of you.

Your hand approached his hair and you brushed a stray curl off his forehead, only then did he open his eyes.

As soon as he saw you he leapt into your arms and collapsed into sobs, fingernails dragging along your arms, trying to draw your body impossibly close.

"(___)" He said softly almost as if he wasn't sure you were really there.

"I'm here my love." You whisper moving your arms to wrap around his waist and resting your head on top of his.

You sat like this for what seemed like seconds but was actually nearly half an hour, he just kept whispering your name and clawing your arms and back while sobbing desperately in your arms. Finally his cries subsided into sniffles and he relaxed slightly in your arms.

He looked up at you and you raised your hands to cradle his face in your palms.

"Why are you here?" He asked as if he was scared of your answer.

"Because I love you and I can't imagine my life without you in it." You said before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips which conveyed all the emotions you couldn't put into words.

He kissed back before pulling away with a smile.

"I love you too. Promise me you won't leave again." He asked.

"Of course not, I plan to stay as long as you'll have me." You respond, every word being the truth.

And that's how your life went, a life full of romance and happiness, one where you never left each other for anything that wasn't completely necessary.

It was just you and Elio.

•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡•♡

AHH ANOTHER ONE DONE THIS MIGHT BE MY FAV

Don't judge its 1am so sorry for any shitty mistakes or anything

It's short but something, I had an English exam today and I think that might of sucked all the good writing out of me so my condolences

[charlesandmartine]

Monday 23rd December 2024

The day started early at 6am with a lovely walk along our beautiful beach for the last time. The usual selection of locals were already promenading, their dogs weaving around their owners' legs, balls flung far for them to exercise at speed, one man with a tennis racket fires balls further and dog responds instantly. It is a chance for conversation as well as satisfaction for their animals.

Moving day today, combined with saying goodbye to the Renault, so we find ourselves once more pedestrians, which seems really odd. We have had this car for a month, and we have grown quite accustomed to it despite its rather strange features. We have taken it for a 1,400-mile holiday, and it didn't look too much the worst for wear when we handed it back. Irrationally, we vacuumed it out for Mr. Avis, so it looked pretty good, we thought. Couple that mileage with that we clocked up with the Ford Ranger in the Northern Territories section, and we have driven a total of 4,150 miles in all through this fascinating country.

Mr Avis gratefully reclaimed our Renault at Hervey Bay Airport with very little fuss. The airport is most likely one of the smallest you will find anywhere. So small, they are borderline polite! We were asked at the check-in desk if it was okay to be in charge of the emergency exit since we were in seats 1D and 1E. I said it would be, but perhaps we might practice opening the door first a few times to familiarise myself with the mechanisms because I take these safety responsibilities most seriously. This without fail always instils a sense of panic in airline staff and without exception in this case. I can always move you to another seat she insisted. It was fine after Martine managed to calm her down, and I'm sure in time she would probably see the funny side of it. The flight was 1 hour 45 minutes duration, and we had to wind the clocks forward an hour on arrival, putting us now 11 hours ahead of UK time. We didn't get off to a great start as our Jetstar Airbus A320-200 romped into Hervey Bay nearly 30 minutes late. No explanation was forthcoming, and absolutely no training was made available regarding our duties should the aircraft have to make an emergency landing onto anything alternative to tarmac runway. At that stage, presumably no-one cares if you get it right or not. Happily, I was not required to operate any of the highly tempting levers, and heroic actions were avoided and saved for another day, and we touched down through sunny skies to temperatures of 32 degrees

Sydney airport is a train ride away from anywhere useful in Sydney, but that is no hardship usually since the double decked train service is extremely good. However, the trains were not running over the weekend due to industrial action, and we were consequently just a bit concerned if we would get into Circular Quays okay to get the ferry to Manly. In the event, all was well, the trains and ferries were running as normal, and it was just like we hadn't been away as we stepped out of Manly Wharf to find Christmas in full swing. Well, as much swing the Australians can manage, not being that good at swinging anything in the entertainment department. All we had to do was drag a couple of suitcases and hump a couple of rucksacks plus rubbery chicken with SB uphill to our lodgings for the next 5 nights. So, we took a taxi instead.

ps. Cunard's Queen Elizabeth was waiting in Circular Quays on our arrival.

pps. Tomorrow, being Christmas Eve, we shall have to nip into town to buy Christmas dinner. A ham might be favourite.

ppps. Apologies for more beach photos, it's all I have today. They were taken this morning.

[nancypullen]

This Time Tomorrow...

I'll be slogging through airport security. But shortly after that I'll be flying through the sky in a chair (doesn't that sound magical?) and eventually landing in Paris.

We'll leave Baltimore around 5pm, connect at JFK, and fly overnight into beautiful Paris. Not going to lie, that first day will be rough. It will be noonish in France when we land. Once we get through passport control and claim our luggage we're catching a 3pm train to Strasbourg. The train ride is about an hour and 45 minutes. Once we arrive in Strasbourg our AirBnB is about a 4 minute walk from the train station...if you're not a 61-year-old zombie. So we'll be arriving at our lodging around 5 o'clock. I promise you that I'll be finished with the day by then. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the trip where I sleep like a baby on the plane and arrive refreshed. There's always a chance, right? But I'm betting on pure exhaustion by the time we unlock the door to our little French abode. As excited as I am about this trip, getting that day out of the way is the first hurdle. So we depart on the evening of the 7th, and the 8th will just be arrival and sleep. Then the adventure begins. I'll take you along to enchanting Alsatian villages and whatever else we discover along the way. BUT...before any of that happens I'm puttering around the house, making sure everything is ready for the cat sitter and for our return. I need to mention that after 42 years of being the only one who did any of that, Mr. Pullen has decided that he will actively participate in all of that fun. He's been tidying, laying in kitty supplies, etc. I don't know what to do with myself when half my chore list is already checked off. This is fun. I've had time to even clean up garden areas for fall (even though it's 80 degrees, yuck!). Remember that German Pink tomato plant that gave me an ulcer this summer? I babied the heck out of that thing and it bloomed like crazy but never produced fruit. I finally just completely ignored it, and now it has eight beautiful tomatoes on it.

Of course. Maybe they'll be perfect in two weeks when we're home, maybe the whole plant will be dead. I waited all summer and now I don't care anymore. Stupid plant. Probably should have waited to take the photo until after I pulled that big ol' weed. Whatever.

Oh! Before I forget, I received an email asking how the clay ghosts turned out that I made in early September (I think?). Eh, mixed results. The candy corn ghost is okay, looks fine with a little battery-powered votive underneath. He's sitting out with some other Halloween decor, doing his job.

The little ghost that I decided to dress in a patchwork quilt is another story. The quilt squares were just okay, but I could live with it, but then I ruined the whole dang thing because I painted his eyes too close together. He has issues.

I kept him in my craft room because I felt bad for doing that to him. We're friends now.

In other news, I was clearing photos out of my phone (100 flower pictures...why??) because I anticipate taking loads of photos on this trip. I came across some fun snaps of birthday gifts...

look at these beautiful sterling silver Scottish thistle earrings, purchased with an Etsy gift card.

I love them! A nod to my heritage, but also just pretty.

Then there was this picture of a luggage tag that I'm tickled with and, yes, I'm just that boring.

It's heavy duty acrylic, and on a metal loop, so super durable - not likely to be torn off, and it's SO CUTE. I covered my phone number because I don't want any calls from weirdos. Another Etsy purchase.

With that same Etsy gift card I found mosaic supplies that I plan to experiment with this winter (I'm excited!) and even this adorable glass tumbler that makes me smile every morning when I drink my protein shake.

And wait until you see this duo!

Not only is that a treasure of a travel journal with perfect prompts...

...but that little pink case is a TINY PHOTO PRINTER!

I've got an app on my phone, so I can select a photo and send it to the little printer with one touch. It prints a picture of excellent quality, and I can peel the back off and stick it right into my travel journal! Holy cow! These were all birthday gifts from people that I love, so they're already special - but man, do they know me well or what? I'm still wallowing around in the birthday love and I've been 61 for 11 days already. I even received flowers. Isn't it always the loveliest surprise when the doorbell rings and there are flowers on the other side? They arrived before my birthday and at the end of the first week some of the most delicate blooms were fading. I always just start plucking out the dying blooms and shrink the bouquet until I have a single stem and some greenery left. I just snapped this - the bouquet is down to about half its original size, and I fear I'll have to say goodbye to it. I may reduce it to just a few flowers and leave a pretty bouquet for the cat sitter. I can't toss them.

When I receive flowers I always try to place them where I'll enjoy them/see them the most. Often I'll move them room to room. These started out on the dining room table, and moved to my craft room on the days I spent hours in there. I love fresh flowers in the house.

So I've rambled from tomatoes to bag tags and have probably bored you stiff. Take heart, I'll soon have beautiful photos to share from fairytale villages. The weather forecast concerns me - the temps look fantastic, but there are a handful of days where we may see rain. I don't want a repeat of my Irish hair.

I don't care about the 8th, that's mostly a travel day. I'm hoping that those other drizzly days clear off in a hurry.

There's not a thing I can do about the weather, so I'm not going to worry about it. Brace yourself, France.

Alrighty kids, I'm outta' here. I need to check my list and make sure I have everything ready before we make our escape. You won't hear from me before the 9th, unless I can't sleep at all on the 8th - then you may get a posting from the wee hours. Until then, sending you loads of love. Stay safe, stay well. Adieu! Au revoir! XOXO, Nancy P.S. I have discovered that our Paris AirBnB at the end of the trip is in the 7th arrondissement, the same as Ina Garten's apartment! I may have found out that her building is on Boulevard Raspail, right across from a fabulous fresh market. Stalker? Who, me? Hey, I just want to pose in front of her building, I don't think she's even there. I did download her autobiography, Be Ready When the Luck Happens, so she's already traveling with me.

[umichenginabroad]

Week 1: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (+ a Ferry)

Ciao!

In the past week, I have used Italian trains, buses, taxis, a shuttle van, planes, and taken a ferry ride, so this blog post will be dedicated to transportation. 

To begin, I was supposed to fly from Chicago to Dublin, then Dublin to Naples, where CIS Abroad (the company hosting the program) provided transport shuttles to either the dorms or shared apartment accommodations in Sorrento. The initial long-haul flight wasn’t too bad, I read for the majority of the flight and was fed some half-decent food. 

Unfortunately, due to delays on the tarmac in Chicago, I missed my connecting flight in Dublin and had to figure out another way to Naples. I luckily discovered someone else also in my program in my same flight and we navigated Europe together. Since the next flight out to Naples wasn’t until the following evening, we decided to go instead to Rome and then brave the Italian train system to navigate to Naples. 

(Me and a fellow study abroad student taking a shuttle to our new terminal in Dublin)

To preface, figuring out the train system seemed to be one of the biggest learning curves people that I have talked to have encountered in the past, and as such it was something I was nervous about coming to Italy. Trains (and ferries, as it turns out) are frequently late and don’t align with posted schedules, tickets have to not only be bought but also validated at the station, and the platform numbers commonly change right before arrival. We were supposed to be briefed on how to handle it during our orientation the first day, however we were thrown straight in the deep end! We used one of the most common websites for booking high-speed trains, ItaliaRail, and managed to book a train from the Rome airport to the main Roman train station (surprisingly far from the airport), then one from Rome to Naples for a total cost of around 65 euros.

(Red passenger train with volcano in background)

Since the first train was a regional/local train, there were no assigned seats and thus we had to validate our tickets just before boarding through, however for the high speed cross-country train to Naples, since we had an assigned seat, we did not have to validate (something that stressed us out as you can face fines if you don’t properly validate tickets). Thankfully, everyone we talked to was very nice and helped us figure it out. 

Once in Naples, we shared a taxi to the airport with two other travelers we met along the way (5 euros each) and waited until a few others from the program landed and got the last transfer shuttle to Sorrento. Finally, after over 36 hours of traveling (almost 16 more than intended) we arrive with a leg up on the local transport compared to our peers.

Just earlier today, I took a bus with two other friends from Sorrento to Positano, another town along the Almalfi coast, for 10 euros. Getting the ticket was very easy, as the ticket booth at the bus station was clearly marked. The bus was about 30 minutes late, but that is to be expected for Italian buses. After around 45 minutes and many many curvy and windy roads, we got off at Positano and explored the town. On the way back, we bought ferry tickets for 19 euros (cheaper with cash than online) and waited in a long line to board. As with the bus, the ferry was quite late, but actually took less time to get back to Sorrento. I think the ferry is my new favorite form of transportation as I loved sitting on the top deck and watching the coastline go by. 

(view of Sorrentine peninsula from top deck of ferry)

Overall, I am quite proud of myself for figuring out how to get around on the fly, but I definitely took away some important lessons. First, be patient, both with yourself and the transportation. Everyone gets lost/confused sometimes and navigating a new country is daunting. Be willing to ask for help if you don’t know what to do! It’s better than facing fines or unknowingly breaking any transit laws. Additionally, some places only take cash, make sure to always carry some cash! Lastly, if you can, TAKE DRAMAMINE, especially for the buses. I am not one to get car/motion sick, but the switch backs and coastal curves are no joke and all three of us were very close to turning green by the time we got off the bus. 

This post is getting long, but I wanted to share some details of Italian public transportation as that was one of my biggest questions going into this program. 

See you next week!

Marika Ruppart

Mechanical Engineering

Engineering in Sorrento, Italy 

[alexiusgoesrogue]

Status Update: Emirates and Dubai (DXB)

The check-in at the gate was a mess and easy at the same time. The announcer voice did not make it very easy to hear whether Group B or Group E would be boarding next. But with that sorted out quickly, with delay thanks to the Lufthansa strike, I was on my way down into my first ever shuttle ride. Meanwhile dad watched from the rooftop of the car park since the viewing platform was closed off for construction.

And of course, I got “lucky”. Two crying infants/toddlers just a row ahead of me. I at first tried to sleep through the flight, like the girl sat to my left did, but even noise cancelling headphones have their limits, and I can’t sleep upright. I am yet to figure out how to kick back my seat.

Curious thing I noticed, the monitors in the seats occasionally show when the next prayer time would be for muslims according to the local timezone, with a graphic showing the direction of Mecca. Also, there’s three cameras on the plane which I could switch between freely to look around outside. I just barely used the feature, it was mostly pitch black for my night flight.

Before flying over Bucharest, food was served. I was asked whether I’d like beef or chicken. But the constant language switching today made me not realize that I asked “nochmal?” in response. The curious look the steward gave me made me realize my mistake.

I chose beef, and was handed a full tray just a minute or two later

Food Ranking

Noodles: 4/5, a weird taste for noodles, but tasty nonetheless, and the bell pepper (?) was a good touch

Main Course: 5/5, first time eating what I assume to be spinach. In itself, not my thing. But with the side dish (no idea what it was, tasted like a tasty, decently spiced, coarse version of mashed potatoes), it was absolutely tolerable. The meatballs and sauce were great, too.

Cheddar: 3/5, a bit unusual texture and taste compared to non-airplane-food cheese, but fine.

Bread roll: 4/5, totally fine to eat on its own when failing to realize there is also a piece of butter on the tray

Crackers: 3/5, basically just a softer version of tuc

Belgian Cookie: 2/5, very soft baked, yet a gooey (?) texture, and a strange, at most tolerable taste

Cheese Cake: n/a, I was too stuffed to try it

***

Another interesting discovery, when the canon is dark, the ceiling has small lights to look like the night sky.

Additionally, I watched a few available episodes of Bluey before takeoff. The headphones provided would make a fine video on Dankpods for sure, and not to be praised.

What I take away from this first leg of the tour done:

-don’t store your bag under a seat, or you will have no legroom. And six hours suck with my busted knees.

-figure out the seat position feature before everyone has boarded

-avoid switching between English and German, only do it if necessary

-never again settle for a middle seat. Go window or aisle, either is far better than the awkward middle.

The flight has been survived though. As of writing, I am currently waiting at the gate for my next flight, twice the length. Send help

The Dubai airport (DXB) is big, yet it doesn’t feel that way. Genuinely, you only feel the size when you see how far up the elevators go, or when you have to take a small train to get to your gate. London Stansted is several times smaller, yet feels endlessly long.

Next achievement I unlocked was finally paying with credit card in person. Only took five tries, but I got my food after all. And I am still unsure whether I like the different taste of McDonald’s food in Dubai.

[turnipshepard]

I know as an American living in Europe I’m supposed to be entranced by the public transportation, but I have to say, it sucks ass and this is an extremely anxiety-inducing way to live. The trains are consistently 5-40 minutes late and you never know in advance - so I’m constantly sprinting for the train station but then surprise! At the last minute they just decide to skip this station. Too bad! I’ve waited 30 minutes for a bus that just never shows up at all, or gets delayed by up to AN HOUR! Work on train lines or strikes are typically only announced 24 hours in advance, leaving me scrambling to figure out how to get to work, how to get to a doctor’s appointment, whatever. (There are replacement buses provided, but they’re insanely crowded and unreliable just like regular busses.) I’m heading to the airport and I’ve been waiting at the train station FOR AN HOUR!!! For a train that just keeps getting cancelled or delayed! And I only know what’s going on thanks to a third party app! oh and a cab ride to the airport costs 50 euros!

My work team even has a group chat to try and keep each other updated and in the loop about transportation. “Hey, I can’t make it in, no trains”, “Hey how are you guys getting in today? I have an important meeting and there’s no trains”. My commute in theory is 15 minutes but I allow up to 90 because you just! Never know! It is utterly exhausting and I’m completely perplexed by all the claims of “Europe” being some kind of public transportation heaven that offers a LESS stressful like compared to cars and traffic. I think maybe everyone just means London and the Netherlands.

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: May

May Ch. 5: You look good. What happened?

May Prompt: Who Are You?

AN: I thought I’d already posted the May chapter?! Whoopsie. 🙊 Italy photos mine. Btw in case it was established too far back in the story for anybody but me to remember, the phrase ‘eye caterpillars’ = bushy eyebrows. 🐛 TW: Outdated references to hipsters. Use of bips. Irishisms. 2015. Picky eater. Fic rewrites. Utter lack of sex.

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan || Prev: April || Next: June

————/-/————

May Chapter 5: You look good. What happened?

————/Billy/————

"You came!” I’ll admit I’m amazed to see Simon Lewis emerge from the depths of the Naples train station blinking at the full force of the Mediterranean sun. It was only just last night he decided to come back and here he appears before me less than 24 hours later. I pull the muppet in for some back-thumping. “What’d you do, y’madman? Drive straight to the airport?”

“Yeah, basically.” He’s grinning, and I can hear the giggle barely contained by his words. “Walked up and bought a ticket right there at the counter, just like in a movie. I am both a baller and a shot caller.”

Billy and the baller/shot-caller.

I can’t help but chortle. “Obviously.” Certo.

“It was iconic. Sexy. I am a sexy icon of bad-assery with balls and shots called. On two continents.” He holds up two fingers, unconsciously forming a symbol that could potentially be misconstrued in Italy. It definitely would be misconstrued back home. But no one’s paying us any mind.

“Look at your man now. Aren’t you just the sexiest Simon ever to have a bad ass.”

“I know, right?” He presents his fist. In a news announcer’s voice he announces, “We fist bump because we’re men, the moment calls for it, and the enthusiasm is infectious.”

“Em, Simon. I think you’re thinking out loud again.”

“Whatever. Don’t care. Too psyched to be here to berate myself for cringey habits.”

This fun Simon is a little different to the one I’ve been texting. He’s a bit more loquacious, this one. Less Hemingway and more, em, I dunno, Simon Lewis I suppose.

“And no more crying chibi Simon,” he declares, as if he needs to be very clear on this point. “I drowned him in the East River – purely figuratively, of course, but it does count. So he’s not along for the ride this time. He cannot steal my bad-ass thunder.”

I can’t help snorting, but before I can give him proper grief for his ass thunder, he stops me with his hand up. “No, no. Don’t bother. It’s true. I didn’t think that one through.”

Tossing his bags in the boot, I feel honor-bound to point out, “I never had you down as a murderer. Plot thickens.”

————/Simon/————

“So where to, mate?” Billy changes the subject to our more immediate, practical concerns.

“I don’t really care, as long as it’s not the hotel. I want to do something. Any thing will do, as long as we have to actively go do it.”

“Right,” he says.

“So where to, mate?” I ask in return.

“Sorrento. Nah-bip-bip-bip I’m not finished. The actual town of Sorrento — or at least the marina. That’s where dinner’ll be.”

“Aren’t you working?” I whip out my ol’ faithful suspicious-side-eye expression. Yeah it’s a predictable choice, but I’m suspicious, so I’m looking at him from the corner of my eye with suspicion. It’s how it’s done, how else am I supposed to do it?

“Nah, man. I took the night off. And anyway, pickin you up is a job all its own, innit,” he teases. He’s teasing.

“That’s all I am to you, a job, isn’t it.” I sniff back my hypothetical tears. “No, but seriously, thanks Billy. For the ride. And for taking the night off. Appreciate you, man.”

“Well, I figured you’re not likely to have a girl already. So it was safe to assume you’d be free for dinner. And I wanted to get you down to town. You can’t be eatin every meal at the hotel.”

“Don’t want to, anyway. I’m here to do it right this time,” I promise him.

Heaving a sigh of relief he says, “Thank Christ,” in the general skyward direction of God on high.

“Thanks, Billy.”

“Acourse, mate.”

“No really. Thanks, Billy.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

————/-/————

“Oh look, he’s back. Where’d you go?” Billy asks me with amusement. He’s amused.

Eloquently, I inquire, “Huh?”

“You disappeared. You do that a lot, mate.”

“Don’t you need an amulet for that?”

“Funny.” Apparently it’s not.

“Y’know, if I could have worked hit points into the books, I totally would have. It just wasn’t the right tone.” I put on a dreamy voice. “Not all dreams come true, Lewis, not all.”

“What are you on about?”

“Books. I write,” I qualify, just to clear up any confusion.

He turns to look at me (taking far too long without his eyes on the road in my opinion). What, is he trying to decide if I look authorly? “That's great, man,” he says. “Where’d you post them?”

“Post them?” Um. “Oh, you mean putting the chapters up online?”

Billy nods. I’m forced to assume I don’t look authorly.

“What kind of stories do you write?” he asks as he skirts a delivery truck driving in reverse down the middle of the road. I decide that it’s best to pretend it’s not actually happening and stare at the view instead.

“Paranormal Urban Fantasy. Never Suburban Fantasy, though, just so you know,” I offer. “I leave that to the experts. Write what you know, you know?”

He chuckles. One of those real ones, despite my not even remotely deserving it. “Cool man,” he says. “Send me a link.”

“Um, ok.” I mean, he could just google me, but whatever.

————/-/————

“All right, mate?” he asks.

“Yeah! Of course!” I say brightly (maybe a little too brightly). I look around me at the bustling noon hour in the center of Sorrento with only the tiniest hint of hesitation. Because, really, it’s just the tiniest hint of a town. He doesn’t notice my case of nerves, thank God. I could not be more embarrassing.

Sorrento; Marina Grande is at bottom right

“All right, then,” he says with a nod, followed by an arching eye caterpillar. “But hear this, Simon. If you get gelato before I get back, that’s it man, we’re not friends.”

“Wow. That’s a little extreme, Billy. On the upside, does that mean we’re BFFs forever if I wait for you?”

“That’s redundant,” he points out.

“What?!” I fix the pointy fucker with my very best shocked-and-offended face, and clutch my figurative pearls. “I am not redundant and I never will be. How dare you.” (The groaning you’re emitting from your throat is ok with me. Really.)

“Ah, go on man, that’s two forevers. It’s excessive, innit. Are yeh really expectin me to serve two consecutive life sentences of best-best friend-friend?”

“Yeah, ok. I’m good with that. We’ll be BFFs forever twice. Like Outkast – forever-ever.” I’m sorry Ms. Jackson, I am for reals.

“I give up,” he says, rolling his eyes. Which offends me. Because I’m the eye-roller. He’s the head-shaker. And he’s stealing my gig.

“So that means I can go ahead and get gelato without you? I mean, you said you give up.”

“Fucksake, Simon, but you’re a pain in my arse.”

“You love it,” I grin at him. “What’s gelato?”

“Fucksake, Simon!” He repeats (redundantly!) and commences the head shaking.

“And how do I find it?” I continue, undaunted.

“All right, look,” he sighs. “The tourist shops are up thatta way. Walk round, buy some shit. Then be back here by half twelve, and wait for me gettin off the bus.”

“Bus? I thought you were parking the car.”

He looks as though he’d like to strangle me.

“No, seriously,” I assure him. “I thought you were just parking the car.” I shoot him a combo of the I’m-about-to-get-in-trouble puppy face, and the but-you-love-me-anyway puppy face. It’s all in the eyes. Make ‘em huge and glisten. Works on Ma every time.

But not on Billy, it turns out. Tough crowd. Instead, he just laughs and laughs. Which is actually quite a thing to behold. And whoa, he’s just walked over and I’m being wrapped up in an actual hug. Like, a real one. Right now.

“I’m glad you’re here, mate,” he says warmly. “It’s good to see yeh.”

I don’t remember the last time somebody really hugged me. Apart from Ma, obviously. Certo. I kinda want another one. But he’s back in the car and pulling the old Mercedes out into traffic.

OK, so…

I’ve got some alone time on my hands. I clap, all ready to go, but then I notice how weird I am and shove my hands in my pockets.

So I hang out on a park bench a bit and watch Billy get stuck in a traffic jam — while the drivers of two cars stop in the center of their respective lanes, for the express purpose of double kissing each others’ cheeks in greeting. I’ve just decided that I need to start an “Only In Italy” list. Which means I need a pad of paper and pencil. Don’t judge my medieval writing implements of choice.

————/-/————

The pencil and paper-finding mission takes over an hour, because I keep asking people for “llaves.” Which, it turns out, means keys. In Spanish. Dios mio, I suck at Italian.

I mean, can you blame me? I never bothered learning more, cuz I didn’t plan to come back anytime soon. Cuz, you know, painful. But then I realized I actually missed Italy. In all senses of the word, but most especially in the wistful, nostalgic sense of the word. And I guess that’s a pretty normal reaction when it comes to people thinking about their trips to Italy.

Plus, I actually know someone who lives here.

————/-/————

Ok, so I’m back where I’m supposed to wait for Billy.

I had hoped for an I heart Italy pen, but apparently that’s only a thing in the US. Here, it turns out they have taste.

And I still don’t know what gelato is. But at least now I do know how beautiful this town is. And how great the Italian people are. At trying not to laugh at you to spare your feelings.

While the entire city looks like burnished yellow gold when seen from a distance, up close there’s more variety. Like the chaotic good mix of blaringly bright tiled roofs. I’ve taken pictures of everything so I can practice my wistfully-nostalgic face again at a future date.

Chaotic good, no?

I’ve chosen a pretty cool spot for people-watching. Everywhere I look, life is happening there. Big, boisterous aliveness. It’s so weird. And also instantaneously addictive.

Ok, so:

Only In Italy

The sky turns lavender. I remember that from last time.

People park their cars at home and take a bus. (Ok, I suppose bridge and tunnel people do that, too. But the vibe is so much more ‘tiny Italian village’ here than in Brooklyn.)

There is only one road. The bus drives back and forth on the one road. For the entirety of this coastline, to get to any of the towns. No, seriously. I don’t think I’m adequately expressing this concept. (And my writer ego is taking a hit because of it.) From Naples (huge industrial port city) directly to Salerno (the next huge industrial port city wayyyyy down the coast), there is a big highway. But that highway doesn’t do shit for you if you want to see any of the seaside towns in-between. For every last one of the tiny towns lining the Bay of Naples, then down and around the whole Sorrentine Peninsula, and aaaall the way to the end of the Amalfi coastline, there is one road. One. Which means that anyone living in the town of, say, Sorrento, has one road – one road!!! – to get the fuck out of town. You either turn right, or you turn left. Your only way in, your only way out. That is nuts. Right? That’s nuts!

Locals have no problem with interrupting all traffic on that one road, by stopping their cars in the middle of their lane and getting out, just to double air kiss the oncoming driver who is now holding up traffic in the opposite direction. And no one (no one!!!) is offended by this. No one seems to realize they have a horn they can honk at precisely these moments. I am mentally horn-honking so hard rn.

Lines painted on the road are purely suggestions. Especially when there are cars idling in the middle of the road for cheek kissing purposes.

I don’t even know what to say about delivery trucks driving in reverse on the one road.

————/-/————

I look up from my Only In Italy list, startled by the squeal of the wheels on the bus trying to stop going round and round. And now I’m watching the bus disgorge a few tourists, a bunch of locals, and an Irishman.

You know, we really are an unlikely pair to form a friendship under unlikely circumstances. But I think I actually needed Billy in a way. I can be a pretty miopic guy, and Billy managed to pull me out of my tunnel vision, preoccupations, and woe-is-me’ing. And he’s done it more than once over the course of our acquaintance. All via text, which I find quite impressive. That is some potent friending.

I need to figure out how to thank him for that without making it weird. Cuz, I mean, things got pretty weird over the last several months, but neither of us is acting uncomfortable or hesitant now. He’s too laid back for that. There is one thing I can say without reservation: Billy Delaney is a good human being. A mensch, in other words.

I think I needed him in order to get over myself, and that is a bizarre thought.

“Look at the state of yeh. Writin away with your nose buried in a book, right where I left yeh. When you should be lookin about. Unbelievable you are, man.”

“My nose — which cannot write, by the way — is buried in a book precisely because I’ve been looking around. I’ve started an Only In Italy list. Submissions welcome.”

That earns me a Billy snort. Among the best snorts out there, actually, is a snort from Billy. How can he be so smooth yet still be such a dork? A dork who got lucky and grew into his – I surreptitiously look him up and down — well, his everything. Bastard.

And that’s not even why everybody loves him! He’s just a fuckin cool dude. Who likes people. And the whole Irish thing doesn’t hurt.

“So where to, man, where to?” he asks with a wide smile, interrupting my thoughts.

“I dunno. You’re the Italian. Let’s do Italian stuff. Like maybe get an overly caffeinated coffee beverage.”

“I am an Irishman, and you could be a tourist if you ever figure out how. You tourist first, and write about it after. Not during. How can you be so self-aware and so clueless?” Billy asks.

My breath catches in my heart. He thinks I’m self-aware?

“You think I’m self-aware?” I can tell I’ve got glistening eyes and they did it all on their own without prompting by my brain. I’d feel like king of the world if I was in Bushwick right now, and everyone within earshot heard him tell me I’m self-aware. And he doesn’t even know what kind of cred he’s just awarded me. “Thanks,” I hiccup.

“Why’re yeh lookin at me with love heart eyes? I just insulted you,” he asserts.

“Did you?”

“Called you clueless, didn’t I.”

Big, breathy sigh. “Didn’t notice. Don’t care. Can I hold your hand right now? We can go have a nice, romantic stroll thru the Italians. You can show me this gelato I’ve heard so much about.” I flutter my eyelashes, and take his hand in both of mine.

“Get off, you muppet,” he laughs, as he tries to extract his hand from my strong and persistent hand-holding.

Not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but a laughing Billy Delaney is something to see. His whole face splits into the widest grin and it lingers long after the laughing’s stopped.

“Oh my god, they are so hot together.” It’s a young woman’s voice coming from somewhere close by. “Oh my god, look at them.”

We both must share a brain because we both swivel to see who the hot people are. I mean, it’s the Medi/Tyrrhenian. It’s an innately sexy place, and people are just kinda generally super-hot here, and remarkably comfortable with being almost uncomfortably sexy.

“So unfair,” moans her friend. I agree completely.

Not finding the hotness they’re referring to, Billy and I both discreetly turn toward the shops to see who’s talking.

“Do you think we can turn them?” another female voice asks. They both dissolve into giggles.

I’m not spotting them. “Can you tell who-”

Billy says under his breath, “By the lemons.”

Guest starring: Two fangirls and lemons the size of your head.

As he and I both lock eyes with the girls, they spin into each other and start giggling as they stare at their phones comparing their stolen shots.

Billy’s caterpillars try to meet in the middle. “Aren’t they a little young to be lookin at us like-” he begins.

“Oh my god!” I stand bolt upright. “That’s where the gelato comes from!!! Billy. Billy, can we please, Billy? I will embarrass you if you don’t stand up immediately and show me which thing I should be pointing at when I ask for it.”

“How do you plan to embarrass me? What, you’ll start jumping up and down while clapping?” he challenges me.

In all seriousness I turn to him. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.” I give him an arched caterpillar of my own, attempting intimidation-and-impending-threat face.

The two girls are squealing to each other, hiding behind their hair.

“To the gelato man!” I point boldly and decisively. “Let’s do this.”

Billy’s caterpillars are trying for a second kiss, as he rises slowly. He’s distracted.

“Why are you not running at the gelato man with me?” I hold my hand out to him. His caterpillars have graduated to blatant frowning at the girls after another particularly sonic squeal.

“Come on, Billy. That’s got to be too young for you,” I tease. “I hope.”

“How could you even suggest-” Ladies and gents, I give you horrified-face, Billy Delaney style. I give him a playful push to reassure him I’m just teasing, and that snaps him out of whatever bizarro universe he was temporarily trapped in.

His eyes snap up to see me laughing at his surprised, blinking eyes. “Come on, sweetheart, buy me a gelato. Honey, you promised.”

Head shaking follows, of course. Certo. As we approach the stall, he keeps sneaking glances between the girls and me. “What the fuck, Simon?” he whispers, while surreptitiously watching them over my shoulder.

We’ve reached the gelato man. Billy offers to order. “What kind?”

“The biggest kind,” I shrug. He snorts and turns to the gelato man. I decide to put the girls out of their misery while Billy is focused on purchasing whatever it is.

“Oh my god, it’s him! It’s really him!” one of the girls hisses, then they look away quickly as their cheeks turn strawberry in mortification.

“Excuse me, um, sir?” the blonde girl squeaks, while progressing from strawberry straight to raspberry. It’s always endearing. I can’t help it. I know what it is to belong to a fandom. Like, being the fan, so I get it.

“Hi,” I approach, and awkwardly raise my hand in greeting.

“It’s really you,” the brunette whispers.

“I can be only one. Y’know, cuz, like, Highlander? No? Ok. Well, hi. I’m-”

“Simon is Simon,” whispers the brunette.

“The one, and the same. Both of us.” I am so embarrassing right now. But they are equally horrified at themselves. So, its a party.

“Can we have a picture?” They turn their pleading puppy eyes on me.

I have to admit, “Your puppy eye game is strong, girls. Practice, grasshoppers. Keep at it, and one day maybe you’ll be pro level like me.” This gets them giggling again. But they’re relaxing the adrenaline a bit.

By the time Billy returns with his booty, the three of us are comparing which of the puppy eye shots should go on Instagram first. I’ve already made my preferences for #2 known, and I’m ready to disengage.

I look up. “It’s ice cream?” I stand and give the girls hugs again.

“Thanks, Simon! We love you so much,” they sigh. Then, looking down at their phones they charge into the street, nearly walking right into an old lady carrying a salami so long that it’s an obscene parody of itself.

“Tag me!” I shout after them.

Mental note: “Only in Italy #7. Old Lady with huge salami that she didn’t buy at Katz’s.” Instead, she’s clearly coming from a shop with “Salumeria” over the door. A frickin salami store. I love this place and never want to leave.

“The deli?” Billy asks, shocking the shit out of me.

“How do you know about Katz’s?! Send a salami to your boy in the army? I’ll have what she’s having?”

“You talk in your sleep, mate,” he replies, straightfaced.

“But- I mean. Cuz like, we’ve never-” I stutter. Great. I’m stuttering.

He’s laughing at me. Which I’m ok with.

“Ow!” he barks, after I slap him in the arm. “Is this how you treat all your dates? Just shush.”

My mouth snaps shut. I am just as surprised about it as he is.

“On your first night in Italy – now don’t interrupt, your last trip never happened – I am honored to introduce you to, nay, expose you to the most Only In Italy thing for your list. The ‘passeggiata.’”

“The what now? Passage otta?”

“Close enough. La passeggiata happens every single night, tourist season or not. Big city or tiny village. Before dinner, everyone en masse decides to go for a walk in town. A lazy, amblin sort of people-watchin activity. Everywhere, the whole country. Late afternoon before dusk you stop and buy a gelato and eat it slowly while the world walks by.

“Passage otta,” I like the sound of that. In Manhattan we call that Times Square at 5pm. But without neon green milk-based product melting down your fingers. But then again, in Times Square you never know. “What the hell neon green thing did you buy me?”

“The biggest one,” he answers, passing it over with a bunch of napkins.

“Why is it the color of Mike Wazowski?” I demand in horror.

“Who?”

“Mike Wazowski! Mike Wazowski! Mike Wazowski. A triple Mike Wazowski: Bucket list, check.”

“Simon.”

“Mike Wazowski. But more importantly, why is it neon green? Doesn’t that mean it’s poisonous? Neon green is nature’s helpful way of warning us about impending doom. Like, did you know one tree frog contains enough poison to kill ten men?” Thanks, BBC. “So where do we go?” I ask.

“Let’s sit a spell over there. Ideal spot, really. Great view down the cliff to the Marina Grande on that side, and the high street shops over here.”

“The tiny tiny baby automobiles are sooooooo cute.”

“I’m partial to the Vespas,” he asserts.

“I want a tiny adorable Vespa so hard right now. Can we get a Vespa, Billy, please?” I plead. “But no, really. What’s with the green ice cream?”

“Simon. It is not ice cream. Say that within range of an Italian and you’re looking at prison I won’t know how to rescue you from.” He points at the cup. “Pistachio. One of the most iconic flavors. And a favorite of mine. Which means that if you hate it, which you won’t do, but if you do, this is a flavor I like enough to eat ‘the biggest one.’”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“I’m a very thoughtful person,” he promises with a sly smirk, which I assume people find sexy. Cuz it kinda is.

I elbow him in the ribs and he giggles. Billy giggles? This is new information. It’s kinda musical, like an arpeggio up the scale. Now I’ve got do-re-mi-fa-so stuck in my head from Sound of Music. Gross.

But I like this, sitting here watching the passage of people as they make their nightly parade. This is why people live here. It’s that big, boisterous aliveness I was thinking about earlier.

“Only in Italy #8: People take walks, not for exercise or the subway.”

Billy Delaney sighs. It’s true. He just did. Then guess what he says next. “Fucksake this is romantic.”

“I know, right?” What, it is.

“First time out of the United States?” he asks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel like maybe I need to be offended.

“It just seems like, you know,” and he waives his hand at me as if that’s all the explanation necessary.

“I’ve been to other countries.”

“Oh yeah? Did it require leaving the North American continent?”

“Shut up. And stop laughing, you asshole,” I grouch at him, because I have been overseas — just not alone, is all. “But you know what you can talk about? How awesome and totally not ice cream this stuff is. It’s so creeeeeamy, and so light, and fresh, and not heavy at all, but still creeeeeeamy. And the Mike Wazowki flavor is really intense.”

“See? What’d I tell yeh?”

“Not much at all, actually,” I observe. He rewards me with the bark of a laugh.

After a few minutes watching la passeggiata in companionable silence, Billy prompts, “One thing I’ve been meaning to ask yeh. You talk a lot about writing. What’s that about?”

“I just love it. Never gets old. Hope it never does. But I can’t really see myself writing more than five or maybe six, tops. Tops,” I assure him.

“Five or six what?”

“Books.” Are we participating in the same conversation? “I’m late with the fourth because the fans want one featuring way more Simon Lewis with way more love story. And that can only be the case because the author, Simon Lewis, wrote himself into the story in the first place. There’s a hashtag for it #SimonIsSimon.” I heave a sigh as if the pressures of the world are far too much for little ol’ me to handle. Actually, “They get really into the whole #SimonIsSimon thing. People get tattoos! I’ve seen it online! Insane.”

“Simon is Simon,” he pauses. “Isn’t that a band?”

I shrug. “Could be. I guess.” I should look that up.

“So,” I continue, even though I’m already sick of the sound of my own voice. (I secretly fear that I might actually be kinda boring.) “Other Simon is this fictitious shoegazing hipster vampire, who lives in a book. Me Simon, is the author. It helps that we are a lovable dork,” I gesture at all of me to prove my point. “And in a love triangle. Dude. I even have my own #teamsimon. Which is super cute. It is also super weird, being a fan favorite.” Especially at the cons.

Billy sits forward. “Hang on, hold up. There’s a fan favourite?”

“Several fan favorites. All the main characters have their Big Moments in the series. Now I have to just suck it up and come up with the right romantic destiny for Other Simon. Cuz right now, there are two girls crushing on him. It just took until book 4 before I’m finally willing to let that happen.”

“Is this online somewhere? Like a blog or something?”

My first instinct is that he must be ‘taking my piss,’ or something gross like that, so I shoot him a glare. But now he looks so earnest that I feel like maybe we really aren’t in the same conversation.

I can feel my glare turning confused. My mother says this expression makes me look like I’m sucking lemons and don’t know why. She calls it Confused Sourpuss. I have yet to come up with a polite, respectful way to say, “Shut up, Ma.”

“Online? Well, yeah. I mean- There’s the fan wiki. But honestly, I’d just recommend starting with the blurbs on my website if you want to decide if it’s worth your time.”

Apparently Confused Sourpuss is not conducive to conversation. He stretches, and stands, then bumps my shoulder. “Come on, mate, let’s get outta here. Day’s marchin on, and you haven’t been down to the marina, yet. La passeggiata happens down there, too.”

————/-/————

No. I’m not afraid of heights. No, really. I’m not!

It’s more like I’m afraid of stairs. Especially stairs like these.

The Hell Stairs. Simon is overreacting.

Billy’s way ahead of me, because of course he is. Just trotting down them, every switchback. Meanwhile, I’m pretending I’m actually trotting when really I’m clinging to medieval stone walls rising vertically like the face of a cliff.

Sure, there are handrails. To keep you alive and all, but just like, one continuous wobbly pipe to hold onto all the way down. And there are at least 100 switchbacks. At least.

I guess it’s a tourist thing. “You have to take the stairs - at least do it once,” he said. “And it’s the fastest route down to the marina.”

He said “marina,” and I pictured lazily strolling around, some restaurants, some shops, stop a couple times for too much caffeine. “Good sunset, too,” he promised. So I was all up for it, and now I’m breathing rapidly and sweating – for anxiety reasons, not physical exertion reasons.

It gets chillier the farther we descend.

This could actually be a really frickin cool setting for a scene with the vamps. Why climb the stairs when you can scale the old medieval walls, am I right?

Billy’s voice hits me, and I swear I almost jump out of my skin and die. And have an asthma attack. (Fuck Other Simon for not having asthma. Bastard.)

I have no idea what he’s just said, because the sound of his voice is bouncing unintelligibly off the walls.

Attempting not to be a Loud American is a major fail, because I’m shouting, “Buongiorno!” and, “Arrivaderci!” so I can listen to the echo ricochet. And it’s awesome how the faint sound of passing cars way below lends a sort of staticky background noise as it travels up the height.

Billy stops laughing at me and tries to muster the balls to shout. Irishmen. Feh. Sometimes it’s useful to be an American. Especially when absolute dickheadery is necessary. Good thing I’m here.

“Just shout something, already! We can pretend you’re American, if that makes you feel any better!” I shout down to him.

All I get is a thousand rebounding “What???”s in return.

When we finally get down to sea level and emerge from the Hell Stairs, we find our way over to the Marina Grande. I want to kiss the ground now that I’m back on it, but determine that it might cause some concern amongst passersby.

Billy looks grimly at me. “You, my friend, must prepare for some of the best seafood of your life. An orgasm on your tongue.”

Um, “Hey now. That’s a little too visual, thanks.”

“Just don’t go makin yourself sick with too much cappuccino.” He scratches at the five o’clock shadow on his chin, looking thoughtful. “Will it deter you if I threaten to get really mad at you if you ruin your appetite? Or are you more likely to get too much cappuccino just to spite me?”

I gasp. “You get me, Billy. You totally get me.” I wipe away my imaginary tears. “It’s so nice when someone totally understands me and everything about me. Come on, buddy. Bring it in,” I say with my arms outstretched for a hug.

He unceremoniously declines.

————/-/————

Billy knocks back the last of his cappuccino. I’m still only two sips into mine.

I feel like I might hate biscotti. They seem like a thing I would hate. Mine’s just staring at me from its plate, looking all rock-like, with pebbles of almonds and whatever greenish nuts get put in biscotti. Are you supposed to suck on them til they finally soften? Dunk ‘em? No thanks. I push them across the table at him.

“So what’s it like, trying to be an author?” he asks.

I’m kinda amazed that he’s remotely interested. But he still doesn’t seem to get it. “Um, I am.”

“You ‘am’ what?” he asks.

“An author. Like, a published one.” His caterpillars arch upward in a rather gratifying fashion. Even if that makes me an asshole, I’m still an asshole who just wants people to be impressed with how awesome I am at all times. Just because I’m not 15 anymore doesn’t mean I’m not 15 on the inside. Especially as I get older, but Other Simon stays the same age.

“What’s that like?”

“Um…” Now I kinda feel like I’d be dishonest if I let him continue to think in the wrong scale. “Ok, so I’m just going to level with you. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

“Nah, man, don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’re really good.” He’s looking at me with fondness and with pity. That’s a pretty advanced level facial expression. And it’s infuriating.

“Billy? Don’t try to be nice, just shoosh.” Am I a terrible person for enjoying watching his trap swing shut?

“I am the author of three novels so far, in an open-ended supernatural urban fantasy series.”

“Hang on, hold up. How old are you?! You can’t be old enough to have written three whole novels.”

“Started writing the first one when I was 15.”

“Oh, right? That’s great man, really ambitious for a kid to have a big dream like that. And you’re still at it?”

“Billy, I swear to God. If you don’t stop prematurely trying to make me feel better I’m going to kick you in the shin. So yeah. Three books. That have been published. In roughly 30 languages.” I’m not really a fame whore, but I have to admit to enjoying watching his eyes bulge, his mouth purse, and his face turn pink. Now it has turned thoughtful.

“Did you- Wait. Did you write The Shadow Instruments?”

I grimace.

“My cousin loves those books! Has done since she was 15,” he declares.

“Sounds about right. I’ll sign a copy if you think she’d like that.” Then it hits me. “Ugh, I sound like such an asshole.” My red forehead feels cool against the marble table top where we’ve stopped to enjoy one of those overly caffeinated beverages they invented here.

He’s been silent a little too long.

Oh. That’s why. He’s googling me. I want to die. I’m leaving everything to my sister. My forehead returns to the table top. It’s less embarrassing there.

“Fuck me,” he says.

“No thanks,” I mumble. “We’ve only just met.”

“That’s not true,” he says absentmindedly, his attention still 99% focused on what he’s reading.

“It’s called artistic license. And you’ve only just met the new and improved Simon Lewis. Crying chibi Simon Lewis drowned the other day. Memorial donations go to the charity of your choice.”

“Huh?” Then he goes silent.

“There’s something fundamentally wrong with you being quiet. It’s unnatural. I don’t trust it.”

“Just thinking, that’s all,” he answers.

“You’re thinking thoughts. Great.”

“Do you narrate everything in your head? The way you talk it sounds like you’ve got a running commentary goin on up there. At all times.”

“Accurate.”

“Is that what makes you a good author?”

“Who says I’m a good author?”

“My formerly 15 year old cousin,” he says with a smirk. He’s smirking. Great.

“She would know,” I say, nodding. “Everybody loved the thought of a 15 year old writing about young people his own age. ‘Such an original voice,’ they said. ‘A breath of fresh air in a genre full of middle-aged women writing for tweens,’ they said. Nevermind that YA is not for tweens. They’d know that if they bothered to read one. My characters are underage killers! Of people and things! And when they get older, I’m going to make them swear. And maybe there’ll be sex scenes. I’ve been researching.”

“You had to do research for the sex scenes?” He looks disbelieving and confused. It’s very squinty.

“Well, they’re sorta…I dunno…I mean- cuz there’s kinda, like, these two boy-” Yeah, and that requires some research.

He’s not even listening. He’s back to googling. When he finally looks up again he says, “I’ll take that signed copy.”

————/Billy/————

The sound of doors openin makes me glance up at the cafe, and there is a proper stunner driftin out like an apparition. Actually, I see her more as a Mata Hari, in all her floatin, gauzy scarves she’s wearin as a cover up for her bikini. And they’re not doin a damn thing to cover her up. She looks Italian, all tanned olive skin and dark hair, but there’s just something different to her. In her manner maybe.

Her fingers are flashing big bits of rock, her eyes are hidden by absurdly oversized black sunglasses with a logo I’m supposed to recognize, and she’s sportin a huge black hat with a brim so wide, it’s a miracle she’s got a tan at all. If I could guess, she’s off one of them yachts out there in the deep waters beyond the marina.

And she’s makin straight for me. Hmmmm. What can I say? It happens.

“Simon Lewis,” she purrs.

Oh. Right.

“Sabina,” he answers drily. I must say I’m surprised. Seems Simon’s got some game.

He stands and they air kiss each other on both cheeks. “Now,” he says, gesturing outward as if he’s indicating all of Italy, “I get why you’re always kissing everybody.”

So she looks Italian, kisses like an Italian, but doesn’t sound at all Italian. It’s a weird accent I can’t quite identify. And I’ve a pretty good ear.

“Why are you in Italy?” she asks.

“Why are you?” Game on, Simon!

“Oh, you know how it always is,” she sighs in boredom. “I’ve got a couple gigs here and there.”

“On the Amalfi Coast?” he asks.

“Oh, you know,” she trails her fingertips along our table, “some people, some parties, Capri, Naples.”

I stand and pull out a chair, finally remembering my manners. “Will yeh join us?”

The way she pulls her sunglasses down her nose and scans me from top to toes, I’ve never felt so much like man meat — at least never with my clothes still on. “Hello,” she says. “Haven’t you got good eyes. And a good face. And-“

“Sabina, this is my BFF forever, Billy Delaney. He’s Irish,” Simon qualifies, as if that explains something. What’s that supposed to mean?

I hold out my hand, but she’s already turned all her attention back to Simon, giving him the same up and down appraisal as she’s done me. “You look good, Simon. What happened?” she asks.

I don’t think I’m takin much of a likin to her. Her compliments sound a mite like insults.

“Nevermind,” she cuts him off. “No time, they’re waiting,” she says, gesturing toward the marina. “You should come to my show this weekend in Naples,” she says, taking Simon’s new notebook and writing something inside.

“Is there a venue the right size for you guys?”

“No no. Not with the band. It’s just a tiny little gig I’ve got spinning at an underground club no one is supposed to know about. You know the ones. Come.”

“Maybe,” he says blandly. Stone Cold Simon Lewis, ladies and gents. Who knew?

Her eyes bounce back and forth between Simon and me. “Billy,” she says, dismissively. I don’t think a girl has ever spoken to me like that in my life. Before I can speak, she’s turning to Simon and kissing him full on the mouth. “Ciao, Simon,” she purrs again. Then she floats off in a swirl of gauze that barely covers her assets.

I don’t think I’ll be missin her company overmuch. And yet, as a consummate wingman I still find myself asking, “Why didn’t yeh get her number?”

“Oh, I already got her number,” he says. “And she already shot me down.”

————/Simon/————

Just a short walk beyond the marina, the restaurant is on the water. Literally. I can hear the sea sloshing peacefully against the foundations at our feet.

They’ve seated us at a table against a wall of windows that runs the entire length of the restaurant. Even if the food isn’t orgasmic the way Billy promised, I could sit here for hours just looking.

Billy sees the rapt expression on my face, and says quietly, “Just wait til you see the sunset.”

And suddenly we’re ordering. Billy has chosen some really unappealing stuff. But for me he immediately orders a lobster, and smiles to himself as if he knows something I don’t. Which is likely how to speak Italian. Or how to cook.

While we’re waiting on our Neapolitan style sardines (which I am really not looking forward to), Billy asks, “You wrote yourself into the book and y’didn’t let yourself get the girl? What’s the point, if you don’t win in the end?” He’s looking at me as though he’s never seen me before, or at least has never mistaken me for an amoeba before.

“Oh, we won in the end.” Pfft, did we. “Yes. Yes, we did. I am very proud of our having won that war, by the way. It was close, til Other Simon mans the fuck up. Vamps the fuck up, really. And oh my God does he. Big displays of courage. And facial tattoos. But whatever.”

“Right. Now stop speaking in inside references and get on with it, man.”

“Dude, don’t ask the impossible. I was born a hipster. You can’t just unhipster at the drop of a hat. Seriously, it’s a lifestyle.”

And yes, fictitious audience in my head, you might be shocked and dismayed to discover that hipsters actually do refer to themselves as hipsters. Out loud. Without irony.

“So yeah,” I continue. “We won in the end. And I kinda sorta got the girl. The wrong one. For like 5 seconds.”

The waiter appears with olives, bread for dipping in very expensive oil virginally pressed from local olives, and the Pinot Grigio Billy requested. He didn’t just choose the wine. He selected it. From roughly page nine in the wine portfolio. They didn’t call it a portfolio, but I feel like they should have. Sounds vaguely Italian and schmancier than ‘wine list.’ The waiter assures us that the sardines will be ready shortly.

————/-/————

Oh my god I can’t eat them, they have eyes. And tails, and everything in-between. And they’re way bigger than the tiny ones in tins they stick on Caesar salad back home. They’re, like, actual fish-sized, if a little smaller than the usual dinner fish. And there are like twelve of them. WTF?

“They’ve been gutted,” Billy says, seeing my horror. As if that’s reassuring. “And the bones are tiny — they just add a little crunch.”

“Ew, gross!”

He’s laughing at me. “Simon. When in Italy…”

“When in Italy you eat fish whole? I’m going home.”

“Pull it off the bone. It’s delicate, so it’ll be easy. Like me to do it?”

“Yes, please. Then you should eat it.”

Billy sighs, and along comes my old friend, the shaking head. I roll my eyes quietly to myself.

He’s whisked away my plate and started a very careful, not at all easy-looking minor surgery on a small fish. For my benefit. “Thanks,” I say warily, when he hands it to me. I try pushing it around my plate to make it look like I’m eating it. “Yum,” I say.

“Simon, just stick the little grubber in your mouth.”

“And that’s supposed to make me want to eat this stuff? What’s a grubber?!”

“Simon.”

“Billy.”

“Please?” he says. “For me?”

Oh my god, does that work on people? Yes, because it works on me.

“Wow. It’s actually good.” And now that I’ve tried it, for him, I stop trying it. Because I’m no less grossed out, just cuz it tastes good.

Unfortunately, there is still the meat of ten sardines still left sitting on the plate. Not my problem, “I’ll just enjoy my Pinot Grigio. Holy shit is it good.”

Oh no. The waiter is heading this way with a very concerned look on his face.

“You are not liking the dish?” …of fish, I want to end the sentence for him like Dr. Seuss. But “merp” comes out instead.

“No, no Tomaso,” says Billy. “It’s lovely. He’s just American.”

“Hey!” I shout at him in my head. In real life, I nod in agreement.

“Ah. Si si si, certo,” says Tomaso, as if that explains everything. Which it kinda does. “Soon I bring to you il piatto secondo,” he assures me.

“But that’s not what I ordered,” I whisper to Billy when Tomaso walks away.

Billy’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “Second plate, that’s all, mate. Main course.”

My lobster arrives. Now this I know how to take apart and still want to eat it afterwards.

Guest starring: Mini fish and lobster. The sardines were awesome, btw. But there was freaking out about the ‘whole fish’ thing.

“Aw! They don’t debone the mini fish, but they’ll split the lobster? It’s the one thing I know how to eat with my hands, and they take that joy away from me? That is so not normal.”

Billy’s laughing. It’s a good sound. Makes me happy that he kinda seems to get me. And my humor. And he gets how to take me — with like a whole bunch of salt thrown over one’s shoulder.

“Respect the chef,” Billy says, raising his glass. “And to Poseidon, who gave us these frutti di mare. Fruits of the sea.”

We’re toasting-slash-praying to Poseidon now?

I pose the question, “Did you know that chicken of the sea is actually a fish?”

“Em…… Right, so it’s wise to toast Poseidon, mate. He has much power on this coastline. Ancient rocks full of Greek magic.”

But all rocks are ancient. Whatever. “Ok,” I raise my glass. “To the sea god. Also, are you like a closet mythological sea god fetishist?”

“Shut up and take a bite,” he commands. Frickin commands! I shiver.

I decide to play along and follow his command. “Oh my-“

“Stop there!”

Rude.

“Like wine, the very first taste is your first exposure to how the entire dish should taste at its very best.” Ohmygod he is so pretentious right now and I am loving it. “And with each bite, your mouth grows a little more accustomed to one or another part of the larger flavor, so that first bite is the fullness of what the chef intended you to experience. What do you taste?” he asks.

“Oh my god, Billy. Stage fright much? How am I supposed to follow that?”

“Simple question. What does it taste like?”

“Tomato…..that tastes really bright. Like sunshiney. Is that weird?

“That’s perfect. Keep going,” he encourages.

“But it’s not, like, tangy at all. It’s….velvety?”

He nods, “On the tongue.” It’s just a statement of fact, not sexy.

“And kinda more like a gravy. No, that’s totally wrong, cuz it’s not at all a gravy, but it is. I guess it’s rich. How can these tiny little tomatoes taste sunshiny and like gravy velvet.” I groan, “Why am I like this?”

“Nah, man. You’re just doin it right. What do you see on your plate?”

“There’s lobster. That’s part of the flavor, too, but not the loudest part. The silky sauce clings to every surface of the noodles. And these noodles are almost obscene. Who sells noodles like this?”

“Pasta, mate. And nobody sells it. The make it. Just saving you from unintentionally speaking inflaming remarks near a chef.”

“Thank you,” I nod. “It’s like you know me. Also, is it weird that I might have gotten a stiffie during all the food talk? Or maybe it’s the food itself….that you won’t let me eat.”

“Go on, man, go on,” he waves.

“Now you’re like, beckoning me to eat. Stop that. My dick is confused.”

Billy just says, “What did I tell you, mate? Next bite is the orgasm. You’ve already done the foreplay.”

“Stop it!”

He does. But, “You’re still smirking, so it’s like you’re still talking food porn.” Down, dick! Bad boy. Sit.

“Nah, man. You were the one talkin pornographic descriptions.”

“Oh, good,” I sigh a breath of relief. “So it was me that gave me wood, and not you. I’m less confused now.”

“It was four ingredients givin you a horn, man. Four total. What is visible on the plate and the oil in the pan at the start.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Apologies, Poseidon.

“Welcome to campania, the fertile, bountiful, fruitful.”

“Now my dick is confused by you being so over the top. Stop.” I take another bite and just roll the pasta around in my mouth. On my sophisticated palate. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I jump. “No! Wait. I’ve dined and gone to heaven.”

Billy is groaning loudly, but not in an appealing, sexy way. More like a way reflecting his complete disbelief at the quality of my punmanship. He’s heaving a sigh, as if I’ve pained his brain and sprained his sterling image of me. Nah, he knows me well enough to lack illusions about the varying quality of my puns.

“Lord, Simon.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Billy snarfs wine out his nose. Which makes me feel both good and sorry for him. “FUCK, not again!!!” he moans, holding his napkin to his face, and rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Again?” I have to know.

“Red wine is not quite as bad as vodka.”

I pull back sharply and hiss in sympathy.

Who hisses in sympathy?! Kill me now. Someone. Please.

“Where was this vodka incident?” I have to know.

“In a minute. First, put some food in yer mouth,” Billy directs me.

“Yes, sir!” I wink at him. But then I’m back to the potential for an orgasm on my tongue. “Oh, my god. What the- How- How is it even better than my short term memory of it?” The food has rendered me incoherent. God, I hate it when other people are totally right. It’s a character flaw. Whatever. “I just want to roll it around on my tongue for the rest of time.”

“Have yeh tried that line with a girl?”

Oh my god, I think I’m blushing. He just made me blush! How old am I? “Pishhh,” is the entirety of my answer, because sometimes Yiddish speaks louder than words.

“Don’t be embarrassed, mate. An orgasm on yer tongue, yeah?”

“Oh my god,” is how brilliant at speaking I am right now. “Yes, I can feel my panties getting wet as we speak. Oh! And I’d like to bathe in this. Do you think they could arrange that? I’ve always wanted to bathe in pasta. And being that this is the best pasta on earth, I really do deserve the very best bathing experience, too.”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Simon.”

“Ouch! And yeah, baby. Come to daddy. You beautiful lobster, you.” I am not flying my fork around like an airplane at a fine dining establishment. But I did consider it. “Y’know it’s funny. It never occurred to me that there might be lobsters outside of Maine.”

Billy slumps (theatrically, I might add), then empties the rest of the bottle of wine into his glass.

————/Billy/————

“You cold?” Simon asks, then tosses the shirt he’s had tied round his waist at me. “You shivered.”

I must not have heard whatever he said next, cuz Simon is asking. “What?” And his eye caterpillars are creased together. Now he’s laughing. “You should see your face!” It’s said with humor, but I must have flinched. The smile has begun a decided slide as if gravity had something to do with it.

“Thanks, mate,” I manage, trying not to show how much that simple observation has affected me. Nobody ever notices stuff like that with me. Or actually pays attention after they ask how I am. I’m used to it. But here comes this lunatic in front of me, and he bothers to notice that I’m cold. I don’t know what to do with it. I am at a loss.

“Sure, whatever.” He leads us through the door and back to the street.

“Wait.” He’s stopped in his tracks. “We’re not going back up the hell stairs. No fucking way.”

I raise my hands and shrug, because yeah, “That was the plan.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. No fucking way.” He makes me watch him put his foot down.

“What, man, are you scared?”

“Yes!” he splutters.

“Don’t want to break a sweat? Or worried about a fall to yer death?”

“No and yes, in order. Asshole! And here I thought you were this big-hearted guy, but you’re just a tall, handsome, Irish, Mean Girl. I thought you were better than that, Billy.”

“I’m still stuck in the beginning part where you think I’m handsome?”

Simon gives me a dramatic shocked-horrified look.

Now this is the part where I start wondering again… “Theatre school, Simon. Admit it.”

“Dammit! You asshole,” he says, raising a finger to make his point.

“What did I do?” I demand. “Yeh needn’t be very embarrassed about the theatre school. It’s only really just a wee bit embarrassing. Just a wee bit,” he reiterates.

“You wish you went to theatre school,” he sneers.

“And there it is, ladies and gentleladies, the truth. Theatre school.” I’m laughing, I mean Jaysus, what else am I supposed to do with that?

He rolls his eyes. “Imagine you at theatre school. You’d prolly get a movie like the first thing you tried out for. That face, Jesus. Sometimes I kind of hate you. I mean, not like, a lot. Just enough to thumb my nose at God and say, ‘He could be better, y’know, God. Somewhere is a flaw, I know it.’”

Now he’s eyeballing me. “Your turn to look for it, God. I need a break.”

Now Simon is turning to me with a discomfiting curiosity. “Have you ever been shot down? Like by a girl.”

I’m speechless. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? It’s not like he wants to hear the truth. “What the fuck, Simon. What’re yeh on about? What’s gotten into yeh, man?”

“You’re avoiding, redirecting. That means you’ve never been shot down, have you?”

The good thing about this idiocy is that we’ve reached the stairs, and he still hasn’t noticed.

“I’ll tell yeh this, mate. Your girl, Sabina – she had no eyes for me, man. If I’d have tried it on with her, she’d’ve definitely shot me down. It was rather an emasculatin feelin, all told. I hope to never repeat it.”

He’s smiling and keeps climbing.

Until, “And you asshole! For making me climb these fucking stairs!”

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan || Prev: April || Next: June wip!

————/-/————

[aventurasdeunatortuga]

Zhijiang

Well so I’m a bit behind on things and there have been some minor mishaps, so I’ll update you on the last week over the course of three posts. Here’s part 1.

On Sunday I was supposed to go from Fenghuang to Lijiang, which involved taking a bus to the train station, taking a train two towns over, and getting a cab to the airport to catch my flight. Needless to say that did not happen.

I underestimated how long the bus ride to the train station was and got on the wrong bus initially which made it all take longer. I got to the train station 1 minute before my train was meant to leave and missed it. At that point my flight was going to leave in 2 hours and I was 90 minutes away by car. I tried to get a cab but no one was willing to take me that far.

I sat on a bench for a while in defeat and then picked myself up and dusted myself off to figure things out. I went to the ticket office at the train station to try to get a new train ticket, the train station employee was super helpful and even though he had no English and my Chinese is rudimentary at best he didn’t give up and kept on trying to help me until we figured out a solution. He found me a train ticket to another destination that wasn’t as close to the airport but the train was leaving immediately and maybe I could figure out a cab from there. I was very grateful for him, I don’t blame people for taking one look at me and saying sorry I can’t help because it really isn’t fair of me to expect them to help me when I don’t speak their language and communicating with mobile translators is very difficult and clunky and time consuming. So I’m very grateful to people who take the time and have the patience to help silly old me.

I made it on the train, and got to the neighboring town of Huaihua. Which was still one town away from where the airport was. At that point my flight was in 90 minutes and I was about an hour away from the airport in optimal conditions. The train station was enormous and when I told the cab driver I was going to the airport he laughed and laughed.

That’s when the real fun started.

He drove me for a couple of minutes, when I asked him how much it would be to go to the airport, and he did finger guns which is definitely not a unit of currency. Then he pulled over on the side of the road and asked which airport I was going to.

I kept repeating again and again which airport I was going to and showing him on the map and showing him the address in Chinese but he was for whatever reason just not understanding at all. Maybe I was pronouncing it wrong or had the wrong Chinese characters written down or I don’t know. Chinese tones always get me, there are 5 different ways to pronounce every vowel sound which completely changes the meaning of the word (shí means is, shì means 10, etc. so pronouncing something wrong totally changes your meaning). We were pulled over for nearly 10 minutes until we figured it out.

Then he drove for about 5 more minutes and decided it was time for a lunch break. So he pulled over and went in a restaurant and ordered food. I mean, he did ask me to join and if I wanted anything. I think I made him mad with my frantic 不要不要！我要去在机场现在！(No! No! I want to go to the airport now!) so he got his order to go and drove off. My flight was at this point leaving in 45 minutes and we were 35 minutes away.

Then we saw the construction workers. The freeway was closed for construction. So we turned around and took a detour. The driver just kept on asking me again and again “为什么你不回说汉语吗” (why don’t you speak Chinese), which I mean, fair question.

We made it to the airport 8 minutes after my flight had left, which, given all the mitigating factors, was actually very impressive.

So there I was in this tiny airport in the town of Zhijiang, which I had never heard of before today. I was the only person in the airport besides the employees and they told me there were no more flights today and asked what my plans were. There was literally nothing around for miles besides cornfields.

So I just started crying and saying I don’t know.

The Zhijiang airport staff are actual angels and they huddled together and whispered amongst themselves for a solid ten minutes and then told me to come with them. It took 4 staff members, many phone calls, and nearly an hour of going back and forth with phone translators but they were able to figure out how to get me on a flight the next day, a hotel for the night, and a ride to and from the hotel to the airport. I am so so grateful to them, they definitely could have just left me there to figure it out myself. They didn’t even work for the airline, they were just airport staff.

So I got to the hotel in downtown Zhijiang. It goes to show just how huge of a country China is that Zhijiang is considered a very small town no one really knows about and yet it was definitely at least the size of Portland if not bigger. The airport staff had managed to score me a room at one of the nicest hotels in town for about $35. It was definitely one of the fanciest hotels I have ever stayed in. Complete with automatic curtains, one of the biggest tvs I have ever seen, and a Japanese heated smart toilet. It was also overlooking an enormous river and waterfront promenade type area.

I enjoyed the hotel for a while, watched TV, and ate convenience store snacks. Then in the evening the waterfront area started coming to life so I went out to explore. The river was so wide and calm, I’d never seen such a still, clear river before. There were people swimming back and forth across it. I dipped my feet in for a while and people watched. When the sun went down the city lit up. Like literally.

Apparently in Zhijiang every night there is a coordinated light show all along the entire riverfront, all the buildings synchronize their lights to light up along with it accompanied by classical music. It lasts for about 4 hours and even included a fog machine at one point. The path and the stairs and the bridge were all lit up in rainbow lights while people took their evening walks. Kids were swimming in the river and playing with bubbles and old ladies were doing zumba and tai chi. It was very idyllic and beautiful. The waterfront area itself reminded me so much of Portland with the river and the bridges but it was so much livelier and full of life. It was really cool.

The next morning I made it to Lijiang without a hitch. Even though this stopover in Zhijiang was unexpected I ended up really enjoying it and was glad for the experience. I’ll update soon with more about Lijiang.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

opinion on trains?

I love train travel for personal reasons, but my visceral opinion on trains is that they're a "second-best" mode of transit. I haven't taken a plane since 2005 and am (to my surprise) not tempted, because flying feels like a really extreme method of travel. I've been on a lot of trains, and trains are wonderful, but I would say they're not actually wonderful, because they have a lot of major shortcomings in terms of comfort, time, etc.

For instance, trains are much slower than planes, but trains don't have airports. This means that sometimes, the best way to get between two cities is to take a train to one city, spend a night there, then take a train to the other city. If you're coming from New York to SF, you can spend all night in Chicago and arrive in SF the next morning. This requires two nights and two flights, or one night and two trains. (Although it's a bit less of an issue for East Coast and West Coast, since Chicago is on the route to SF for both of them.) If you have to fly between those cities (or between New York and Chicago), this is the better option, even though you have to wait overnight and take a train.

Of course you can make a train route from New York to SF through Chicago (there is one), but then you're crossing the country, and you'll take 4-5 nights for a trip that could be done in 2. (In this case you'd spend two nights in Chicago and two nights in New Orleans, a stop on the train route from NYC to Chicago.) The quality of sleep on a train is no worse than sleep in a bed, but you've lost one night, and I have work to do, so . . .

Another thing: trains just aren't very smooth. Sometimes they lurch around in a way that feels unsafe, and some seats are always moving around. If the train has a rocky ride, you don't have the ability to correct for this -- planes always have some sort of sway, but you're used to it and can ignore it. If you're sitting on the floor of a train car and it lurches, you're going to fuck up your knees; if you're on a plane, you just sit and things are fine.

(Speaking of rocky rides, I was once on a train from NYC to DC on a day when the Penn Station track area was experiencing a lot of unusually bad weather, which meant that the trip was slowed down a lot. A guy on the train said something like "it's not bad, I just have to be careful where I stand." I was like "if I were in the subway right now I'd be okay," but this guy was like "well, sure, but the subway is one of the most frequently used train systems in the world. The subway was built with weather like this in mind. This train is running on a line that wasn't built until 1830 and is probably not well-sheltered, and I have to be careful where I stand." And I was like "fair enough")

Another thing: I think trains are just bad for being in a rush, or trying to be somewhere in a relatively short amount of time. (This may be a defect of train systems that are generally more sprawling and less geared towards speed.) If I'm catching a train in Providence at 5 pm and I have to be at my destination by 6:30, I can't be sure that I'm going to make it, because the train system just isn't built around that speed. I once took a train that was 15 minutes late from Providence to NYC and had to get on the next train and got to NYC an hour later than I'd hoped. This just wouldn't happen with a plane!

The best thing about trains is "people watching." Train-going people are really nice and interesting, and the atmosphere of a train is much more like an ordinary social event than, say, a plane (but better, because nobody is being overtly suspicious). A plane, by contrast, feels like an ordinary place of work -- I mean that in a neutral, descriptive way, not in the sense of "lol airplanes" -- and people just feel slightly cold and strange. If I have a lot of work I'd rather do, I'd rather be on a train, where I can also read stuff in the lounge car, or talk to the people around me, or watch the scenery, or do small bits of work as a way to earn my way. (I have no objection to asking people for their thoughts on trains)

[angleofmusings]

every time i think about how much the car-centric US infrastructure fails to actually benefit individual drivers i get a little bit more anti-US

we *have* public transit here, but like. if the commuter rail (already a decent walk, or a short drive but only if i’m going to be back within four hours) isn’t running at the time i’m trying to get somewhere. like. it’s 15 minutes to drive to the nearest T stop and then $9/day for parking, plus fares. otherwise to get into the city proper it’s 30–40 minutes of driving in awful traffic, upwards of $30 to park somewhere, and then if it’s for a specific event another 20–30 minutes just to get out of whatever parking garage i had to park in. and then i still have to drive home.

if i want to, say, go to gillette for an event, even taking the train requires going into the city first. driving directly to the stadium is an option but requires buying a parking pass and sitting in awful traffic and spending an hour getting out of the parking lot, or walking a mile to and from a friend’s house to the stadium (which, to be clear, only works if you know someone who lives nearby).

on a larger scale, if you want to go north-south between two places anywhere that’s west of chicago but east of california-oregon-washington, amtrak can’t really help you. you can fly (usually requires driving to the airport and getting an uber/lyft/taxi at your destination) or drive. I-15, 25, and 35 are basically the only north-south interstate highways in that region.

let’s say we’re traveling from helena, MT to albuquerque, NM. (two major cities i picked at random.) google maps doesn’t even offer any train routes. you can take I-15 for 8 hours down to northern utah and then drive 2 hours to I-70, head southeast for six and a half hours until you get to I-25 north of albuquerque, then continue south for 15 more minutes. in total, almost 17 hours of driving. just over 1000 miles, which is over 1600 km.

what if you’re in page, AZ (just south of the utah border) going to aberdeen, SD (about 34 miles / 55 km south of the north dakota border). the fastest route by car is over 20 hours, and requires you to make a big winding circle that takes over 3 hours and almost 150 miles / 240 km to even reach utah, and almost 3 hours more to reach I-70; in total 315 miles / 507 km. (from page AZ to I-70 in crescent junction UT is about 170 miles / 270 km as the crow flies.) and you’ve still got about 15 hours more driving to look forward to! you have to drive almost 5 hours on I-70 to denver, CO (yay, driving through a major city!!) and then 3 and a half hours on I-80 to reach the nebraska border, and 6 more hours after that using mostly state routes to reach aberdeen. total distance as the crow flies: 895 miles / 1440 km. total distance as the car travels: 1286 miles / 2070 km, over 1.4 times as far. and no, you can’t just take the train. and aberdeen is 75 miles from the nearest airport with any flights, and it’ll run you almost $700 per ticket in addition to any cars you have to rent or ride share app fees.

for an EU comparison: from guadalajara, spain (near madrid) to augsburg, germany (near munich) is around 17 hours by transit, or over 18 hours by car. and even that 18+ hours by car is significantly closer to a straight line. (going directly from madrid to munich is even more of a difference: 16 hours by transit, over 19 hours driving. or you can of course take a flight, which will take ~2.5 hours and cost a third as much per ticket as the US example.)

the reason this works is because europe has far less space. the cities are denser, so the infrastructure is denser, too. trains are great at dealing with lower density areas, so why doesn’t the US use them?