1/5

1. i'd never really thought of going there. I'd never really thought of going to any of those places. I think I always knew I'd get there one day, though I believe I always thought of IT as ONE. Despite knowing how many are jammed like magical sardines in a can of mouth-watering beauty - I thought i'd live in a van like they did. Have christmas under a twig with hand drawn portrait-cards. Have our faces drawn into sinister greys and whites. He'd grow a mustache. It's silly to think much of the same, but its the only thing of theirs I've really cherished. I've looked at them and wondered where it went. Wonder if I'll ever grow too old to sleep on a sheet-less mattress in a snow mounded boxed of blue (or yellow, or green, or red).

I really thought I'd see more palm trees before I'd see another cobble stone'd road -- more cobbled than the South of Houston, older than the pebbles on that Koh. I expected a want to stay there instantly -- and I did, if only for the roads, and the stone'd fences. And for them.

Lots of it was special (by that I mean, momentous, magical, un-general), but most of it wasn't (by that I mean, it was all memorable, each corner and each tilt of the head; it proved to be interesting, as every new place is, and-- remarkably unique. But we still woke sandy eye'd and molded into our bodies as we do every morning, words hurt just as much, and the sun shone the same way as it does at home). To me thats what made the experience so painfully, beautifully real. I think I have said before that each place, (even the furthest from here) that I have been has so sorely familiar; just slightly slanted. I think that stands here, too. I don't mean that to sound negative - quite the opposite. It gave me the greatest sense of familiarity and solace laced with opulence it wasn't until our third stop that I longed for some concrete I'd already stepped on and perhaps the sound of my mother's voice.

Anyway, it was beautiful to look at, but what struck me most was the feeling in the air. As we progressed, things got more beautiful, or at least my eyes were finally wide enough to take me some place else, and i was finally able to swallow the freedom that kissed me from the beginning. We opted to walk, a lot. We missed the big things, and I wasn't even a bit disappointed, just a little worried of what I might tell her when I got home. That soon faded though, I just wish I could have spent more time in the first. Going, I knew I would feel this regret, this longing to walk longer with them beside us, but I was grateful for the one night with them, speaking of Paris, and other places I have not been, where I jotted down the one word to describe this place and all its parts: Honesty.

Its funny how betrayed we can feel over here. Spiteful, full of blame for those who are supposed to protect us. Its not our fault - after all, they told us they would, or rather --they promised us they would, and we were told not to do much other than to obey. There, though... with the pints and the twang, the tables and empty glasses littering the alley-ways, the dark wooden boxes filled with candles and families, enjoying a beer with your baby. Here, things that are monitored are not solely outlawed. They allow you to make mistakes. The closings at 10. The hand made paper bound in pressed leather. The stables turned vendors. The way they smile only if you smile at them. They don't push their way to you when they see your sparkling shoes - they let you come to them, and they treat you with their own bouts of human interaction. Its so beautifully un-special; which i think is what makes it so perpetually inspiring.