Well Eleanor did it. She negotiated and secured a farm for the four of us to go to. All of this before we had caught our breath from our trek to the station, maybe more accurately, before I caught MY breath. She rounded the corner, cell phone in one hand and with my photocopied list of farms in the other hand, rustling the sheets of paper as though they were the source of a overdue invention or discovery. "We've got a farm" she exclaimed "and they are sweet AND they have olives." "Hooray. " (No kidding we really did say Hooray all at once). Suddenly, my gut impulse to flee was being supported with a confirmed reality. There were olives owned by happy people, I would remain in the company of my new friends for another week and in between the two there will be meat to eat and wine to drink. Phew on all counts. We could just wait now. There were no worries, only a sense of adventure and a need to do good work for people who probably said thank you.
We were left to some wondering about at the station, some idle chatter, and long pouts of silence. Often the silence was comfortable, like a cozy chair you could give all your weight to. But some moments for me were like a rest on a bed of nails. Laying on the tracks like confetti were headless pigeons with hundreds of empty shot gun shells, apparently a pass time here. Thankfully I don't think they were very good shots, the number of color cartridges greatly outnumbered the grey carcasses of the ill fated bird. Chris quickly made a game of collecting the shells . None of us could stomach the birds. Zoe lined up the collected shells and photographed the hell out of them. She placed them mindfully in a serpent pattern near the DO NOT CROSS hazard yellow line before the tracks. Chris and I wagered a bet on how many there were. I was trying to win back my Euro from the will we be walking or get a ride to the station bet from the night before. I won this one , I think he collected 120 odd cartridge, some still remained uncounted. There weren't nearly as many birds thankfully but there was enough to be creepy. When comparing the two, I was left wondering how does someone else that has a brain just like I do end up doing things like this. So many of us are given the same components but we just use them so very differently.
It was a four hour wait at the station, the time passed swiftly. I was sleepy. The walk with 40 pounds of gear for two hours made me sweat and made me a little sad. The walk became the catalyst for a battle with myself. I wasn't sad because I had to leave I was sad because it was so hard, the shlepping, the walking. The sadness felt like grief. It was humbling taking the end of the line even though I started off first. The young ones rushed past me, flush with excitement not cardio overload, the zip of We have got a place to go and were going dammit. They waited for me politely at the turns and at the top of the hills, offered words of encouragement along the way. I waved them on, smiled to acknowledge the gesture. I was embarrassed honestly and struggling to keep myself in motion. I felt haunted. At some point I was ready to just take a few pairs of underwear from my backpack, my computer, rubber boot s and one tube of lipstick, just leave everything else by the side of the road. By some miracle, I talked myself off that ledge.
I was being brow beat by recent and past memories involving the reality of my chubbiness. At one point when we were all squeezed around the table to eat about two bites full of hot water and hydrated beans (yuck), Laura indicated to a WWOOFer, "Sit here this is where little people sit, Marianne you sit here" , she pat the chair at the head of the table gently like a momma pats a baby's bum, looking with wide eyes like she just did me a huge favor. My cheeks flushed and inside I died a little. "Oh no I am in the land of the little people." I thought, " How did I get skipped on this gene? I have the hair, the skin, the eyes, the short but not the little how did this happen." I have kicked these facts around all my life. It is a terrible waste of time but I find myself pacing this line over and over again. Next I sparred with the memories of my uber fitness days when I had no real idea of what I looked like or how wonderful just being young is. I blurted out to my young friends,
The Gitty up Girl inside propped me up against the ropes, cleared the sweat and blood from the bludgeoning I had rendered upon myself and told me what to do. It was as though she took out my mouth piece and rubbed me down, squirt my face with water, looked deep into my eyes, grabbed my chin in a "Look at me" gesture. I was almost falling apart. "Shut up Marianne, You are in Italy traveling with three beautiful people, one is totally fluent in Italian and all of them are happy people and horny for food. Just close your eyes for a minute then go count sheep, the ones right in front of you stupid, right on the side of this beautiful mountain not the make believe ones before sleep. Wake up. Jesus girl you are in Italy. It is time to get happy again sunshine, it's good for everyone around you including yourself."
Well alright then I consented like I just got bitch slapped. Welcome back the Marianne I know and love.
Resolute, content, I took a deep breath. I was disentangled from my monsters and in the company of good people who understand the eccentric. No one rolled their eyes or snickered. They just smiled. I settled in for the wait. Found my place. Perched myself on a cement bench out of the sun, propped my feet on my suitcase and counted bleating sheep.
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