Post by Lady Idril on Jun 8, 2006 18:38:50 GMT -5
Rated K (maybe K+ if I decide to continue)
A/N This is just something I've been dreaming up for a while and decided to put it to paper. Enjoy!
Life is an interesting thing. Not funny, not bizarre, not even strange; just interesting, in the true sense of the word. Absorbing. Curious. Intriguing. There’s so much to study, and so much to experience. It’s like the world is one giant agora and we’re all peasants, casually strolling the markets of opportunities. Only, some of us simply browse and never submit. We take a gander at the offerings of life, but we never really accept them.
I’m one of those people. My twenty-three years have been spent perusing my options, my opportunities, but only perusing. Never just jumping out there and taking what I can, experiencing what I can.
I always tell myself: I don’t want to die before I get to live. I want one moment, just one single minute in time before I leave this earth, when I can feel truly alive. Like you sometimes see in a movie, the moment when the music ascends and the dialogue is gone, and the only thing you see is one human being, truly finding utter happiness for one moment. Maybe it’s dancing in the rain, maybe it’s racing a new friend, maybe it’s just driving on an empty rode. Whatever it is, it’s “the moment”. I don’t want a lifetime of it, I only want that single minute of complete selflessness. I wanted a moment. And I was fortunate enough to get one. It was in the summer of 2003 on exactly July 29th, and it wasn’t just a minute. It was an entire evening.
I would sound like a Hilton sister if I just said I was vacationing in Naples; after months of fruitless job interviews and negative relationships, I decided to follow the one light in my darkness: Naples. My grandfather was from Naples, my grandmother was from Lazio, and both had constantly filled my head with stories of a world so beautiful it was nearly unimaginable.
But it was my grandfather’s stories that struck me the most. “Naples is a mystery, it is a story,” he would always say gruffly over his pipe. “It is everything and nothing. It is a diamond and a pebble. Someday you’ll go there, little Julie,” he would encourage, “and you will bless your grandfather’s heart.”
When I got older, he would talk on subjects moral, as all grandfathers seem to do, but he would always manage to work in a word about Giambattista Vico. “Brilliant man, he was,” Grandpa would muse; “inspired Goethe, you know. Only a Neapolitan can have a brain like Vico’s.”
I would always smiley and nod at this. “Yes, Grandpa. You’re right, Grandpa. Absolutely, Grandpa.” And so I finally, at twenty-three years old, conceded to follow that crazy dream my grandfather had instilled: I was going to Naples.
“How” was, of course, the first question to penetrate the delusional reverie that had seemed to take over. How? Well, I scrounged up the money from savings, much to the disapproval of the twelve-odd tellers at the seven different banks I currently collaborated with.
A “Cheap-o Air” ticket got me across the water, and a Post-It lined with phone numbers of relatives’ friends ensured me a roof and bed. But I didn’t want those. A roof and bed, yes, of course - I didn’t want relatives’ friends. I wanted something else, I don’t know what. Adventure, I suppose. And what’s more adventurous than wandering around Italy without a place to stay?
This rush of rampant selflessness lasted about four minutes after arriving in the beloved city. It was then that I realized I spoke no Italian, never mind the Neapolitan Romance language that was widely received in this particular part of the country. I looked back on my stupidity when I also registered the fact that I had no recollection of this city’s geography and had absolutely no sense of direction.
“Alright,” I sighed acquiescently as I made for the payphone on the street corner outside the airport. “Second-cousin-twice-removed Gina, here I come!”
- - -
Two days into my ridiculous “new life” and I had seen about as much adventure as the little fruit fly I sat watching while I drained a cup of coffee, staring contemplatively, blankly into the distant as the sun started its descent and the young party-seekers began to filter into the small cobblestoned ally.
Old, worn buildings of three or four stories stood firmly around me, echoing the aesthetics of the city’s history. The young glamour-clad couples contrasted with the classic look this ally so perfectly portrayed. The old Domenico Modugno record fizzled into oblivion as the hipper sound of Ligabue took over the city.
This was not an immature, roll-your-eyes kinda of nightlife. It was tasteful and exciting, and pretty soon I found myself completely enthralled with people-watching, my coffee cup magically transformed into a glass of deep red wine.
It’s odd looking back, but I had this incredible feeling that someone was watching me. I had felt it the entire afternoon, and now as the setting sun made the ally as red as fire, I finally took the nerve to look around and find the culprit.
My eyes locked with the incredibly handsome man sitting a few tables away. He was breathtaking, I thought, and yet I felt completely comfortable under his gaze. He had a deeply tanned complexion, and the most stunning brown eyes I had ever seen, slightly masked by the dark soft curls that fell unceremoniously around his face, reaching just above his shoulders. His eyes penetrated to my soul, but he was not teasingly staring at me. He looked curious. Was it that obvious I was a tourist?
He smiled a small, adorable smile and raised his own wine glass in salute to my own. I chuckled as I imitated the motion and we both drained our glasses.
We sat like this for what seemed hours, connecting in some strange way. Every now and then I let the rock music (now growing louder as the nighttime deepened) to seep into my brain, oblivious to the words, and every now and then I started to sway subconsciously. This is when he would start to laugh, a charming-looking laugh, and I would soon realize what I was doing, blush crimson, and desist.
I was completely at peace, enjoying this small thread of intrigue, but my happiness waned as I turned my attention to a loud brawl in the corner, and looked back to find my mysterious Italian Adonis gone, without a trace. Only an empty seat at an empty table, with an empty wine glass.
It couldn’t last forever, I thought. But just a little bit longer! I missed his energy already, this strange friendship we’d formed just by looking into each others’ souls, beautiful as they were. Turning to rise from my seat, ready to surrender my luck and retire to Second-cousin-twice-removed-Gina’s humble abode, I audibly gasped as I was greeted with those two magically innocent eyes. It was him!
“Ciao,” he said softly, that sweet smile I had become friends with now returning to his lovely features. I stuttered an awkward “Uh, hi” as he swept my hand up and kissed it, so softly I wasn’t sure he’d even touched the skin.
“Lei in vacanza?” he asked me, an air of knowing in his tone. His voice was as charming as he appeared, deep and calm.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I replied, embarrassed. “Do you speak English?”
He smiled. “Only little bit words.”
“Ah,” I replied. “I’m Julia.”
“Alessandro,” he said as he brought my hand up and kissed it once more. “It is nice to hear voice that is with such pretty a face.”
I smirked. Same to you, my friend, I thought. Same to you.
“You like the dance?” he asked, his eyes lighting up instantly as a new song exuded from an unseen source. I cringed at the memories of techno lights reflecting on the dance floor of the local club while Cascada erupted in the background, but acquiescently nodded anyway.
He smiled widely and immediately pulled me into the center of the ally, amidst dozens of other night-owls, while the beautiful song hit its first verse. I had never laughed as hard as I did in those few minutes, forgetting propriety and the fact that he was watching me, and just letting loose. I raised my hands in the air, randomly soaking in the foreign beats and this new fervor for life.
And no, that fervor can’t be found deep inside a bottle of Chianti.
A/N This is just something I've been dreaming up for a while and decided to put it to paper. Enjoy!
Life is an interesting thing. Not funny, not bizarre, not even strange; just interesting, in the true sense of the word. Absorbing. Curious. Intriguing. There’s so much to study, and so much to experience. It’s like the world is one giant agora and we’re all peasants, casually strolling the markets of opportunities. Only, some of us simply browse and never submit. We take a gander at the offerings of life, but we never really accept them.
I’m one of those people. My twenty-three years have been spent perusing my options, my opportunities, but only perusing. Never just jumping out there and taking what I can, experiencing what I can.
I always tell myself: I don’t want to die before I get to live. I want one moment, just one single minute in time before I leave this earth, when I can feel truly alive. Like you sometimes see in a movie, the moment when the music ascends and the dialogue is gone, and the only thing you see is one human being, truly finding utter happiness for one moment. Maybe it’s dancing in the rain, maybe it’s racing a new friend, maybe it’s just driving on an empty rode. Whatever it is, it’s “the moment”. I don’t want a lifetime of it, I only want that single minute of complete selflessness. I wanted a moment. And I was fortunate enough to get one. It was in the summer of 2003 on exactly July 29th, and it wasn’t just a minute. It was an entire evening.
I would sound like a Hilton sister if I just said I was vacationing in Naples; after months of fruitless job interviews and negative relationships, I decided to follow the one light in my darkness: Naples. My grandfather was from Naples, my grandmother was from Lazio, and both had constantly filled my head with stories of a world so beautiful it was nearly unimaginable.
But it was my grandfather’s stories that struck me the most. “Naples is a mystery, it is a story,” he would always say gruffly over his pipe. “It is everything and nothing. It is a diamond and a pebble. Someday you’ll go there, little Julie,” he would encourage, “and you will bless your grandfather’s heart.”
When I got older, he would talk on subjects moral, as all grandfathers seem to do, but he would always manage to work in a word about Giambattista Vico. “Brilliant man, he was,” Grandpa would muse; “inspired Goethe, you know. Only a Neapolitan can have a brain like Vico’s.”
I would always smiley and nod at this. “Yes, Grandpa. You’re right, Grandpa. Absolutely, Grandpa.” And so I finally, at twenty-three years old, conceded to follow that crazy dream my grandfather had instilled: I was going to Naples.
“How” was, of course, the first question to penetrate the delusional reverie that had seemed to take over. How? Well, I scrounged up the money from savings, much to the disapproval of the twelve-odd tellers at the seven different banks I currently collaborated with.
A “Cheap-o Air” ticket got me across the water, and a Post-It lined with phone numbers of relatives’ friends ensured me a roof and bed. But I didn’t want those. A roof and bed, yes, of course - I didn’t want relatives’ friends. I wanted something else, I don’t know what. Adventure, I suppose. And what’s more adventurous than wandering around Italy without a place to stay?
This rush of rampant selflessness lasted about four minutes after arriving in the beloved city. It was then that I realized I spoke no Italian, never mind the Neapolitan Romance language that was widely received in this particular part of the country. I looked back on my stupidity when I also registered the fact that I had no recollection of this city’s geography and had absolutely no sense of direction.
“Alright,” I sighed acquiescently as I made for the payphone on the street corner outside the airport. “Second-cousin-twice-removed Gina, here I come!”
- - -
Two days into my ridiculous “new life” and I had seen about as much adventure as the little fruit fly I sat watching while I drained a cup of coffee, staring contemplatively, blankly into the distant as the sun started its descent and the young party-seekers began to filter into the small cobblestoned ally.
Old, worn buildings of three or four stories stood firmly around me, echoing the aesthetics of the city’s history. The young glamour-clad couples contrasted with the classic look this ally so perfectly portrayed. The old Domenico Modugno record fizzled into oblivion as the hipper sound of Ligabue took over the city.
This was not an immature, roll-your-eyes kinda of nightlife. It was tasteful and exciting, and pretty soon I found myself completely enthralled with people-watching, my coffee cup magically transformed into a glass of deep red wine.
It’s odd looking back, but I had this incredible feeling that someone was watching me. I had felt it the entire afternoon, and now as the setting sun made the ally as red as fire, I finally took the nerve to look around and find the culprit.
My eyes locked with the incredibly handsome man sitting a few tables away. He was breathtaking, I thought, and yet I felt completely comfortable under his gaze. He had a deeply tanned complexion, and the most stunning brown eyes I had ever seen, slightly masked by the dark soft curls that fell unceremoniously around his face, reaching just above his shoulders. His eyes penetrated to my soul, but he was not teasingly staring at me. He looked curious. Was it that obvious I was a tourist?
He smiled a small, adorable smile and raised his own wine glass in salute to my own. I chuckled as I imitated the motion and we both drained our glasses.
We sat like this for what seemed hours, connecting in some strange way. Every now and then I let the rock music (now growing louder as the nighttime deepened) to seep into my brain, oblivious to the words, and every now and then I started to sway subconsciously. This is when he would start to laugh, a charming-looking laugh, and I would soon realize what I was doing, blush crimson, and desist.
I was completely at peace, enjoying this small thread of intrigue, but my happiness waned as I turned my attention to a loud brawl in the corner, and looked back to find my mysterious Italian Adonis gone, without a trace. Only an empty seat at an empty table, with an empty wine glass.
It couldn’t last forever, I thought. But just a little bit longer! I missed his energy already, this strange friendship we’d formed just by looking into each others’ souls, beautiful as they were. Turning to rise from my seat, ready to surrender my luck and retire to Second-cousin-twice-removed-Gina’s humble abode, I audibly gasped as I was greeted with those two magically innocent eyes. It was him!
“Ciao,” he said softly, that sweet smile I had become friends with now returning to his lovely features. I stuttered an awkward “Uh, hi” as he swept my hand up and kissed it, so softly I wasn’t sure he’d even touched the skin.
“Lei in vacanza?” he asked me, an air of knowing in his tone. His voice was as charming as he appeared, deep and calm.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I replied, embarrassed. “Do you speak English?”
He smiled. “Only little bit words.”
“Ah,” I replied. “I’m Julia.”
“Alessandro,” he said as he brought my hand up and kissed it once more. “It is nice to hear voice that is with such pretty a face.”
I smirked. Same to you, my friend, I thought. Same to you.
“You like the dance?” he asked, his eyes lighting up instantly as a new song exuded from an unseen source. I cringed at the memories of techno lights reflecting on the dance floor of the local club while Cascada erupted in the background, but acquiescently nodded anyway.
He smiled widely and immediately pulled me into the center of the ally, amidst dozens of other night-owls, while the beautiful song hit its first verse. I had never laughed as hard as I did in those few minutes, forgetting propriety and the fact that he was watching me, and just letting loose. I raised my hands in the air, randomly soaking in the foreign beats and this new fervor for life.
And no, that fervor can’t be found deep inside a bottle of Chianti.