Short-form writing with a long-winded hand.
"That’s a good free box, if I do say so myself. I’d be thrilled to happen upon that box if I walked by it.” For the past three weeks since we’ve signed the lease on a new apartment, I’ve been repeating this to Stephen ad nauseum, now more a recurring bit to annoy him than anything else.
There's something so deliciously sinister and suburban about an easy interstate commute, relishing in the privilege that bridges the heat blasting on my feet tucked in new creamy leather Vince boots and brief, scalding sips of coffee from the snazzy new travel mug Stephen smartly gifted me for Christmas.
I spent most of my Introduction to Linguistics class staring at myself on Zoom and silently admonishing the 19-year-olds who rudely kept their cameras off for the entirety of the course. My professor in training was a cute blonde German native who, by her own admission, couldn't pronounce "squirrel", and it pained me to see her grasping for even an iota of participation from her students.
"Do you wanna get wings after class?" They weren’t the first words I spoke to Stephen, but they were the first marinated in mustering up the courage to ask him out and bump uglies already.
The name of the store was "Possibilities," which I frequented with my friend at the time, Kara, the only Pisces in my life I've ever befriended. It sat next to a therapist's office right off Pittston Avenue in Scranton, a therapist I visited only once at my mother's urging after my parents divorced, but that's not what this is about (although the timing of traumatic childhood event and thinking I was a witch pairs nicely, like spicy red wine and a good cut of meat.)
It was October of 2019 and I was reading A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness, the first installment of the All Souls Trilogy. There's a particular scene in the book when Matthew (vampire) invites Diana (witch), a yoga aficionado (and professional rower and alchemical historian and skinny blonde...groan) to a late night yoga session with a room full of other witches, vampires and daemons.
The hankering for fame like no other started as early as I can remember. I was an only child, so the center of attention simply by default, and I thrived most in climates where I was the focal point of the room. By four or five, I was already destined to be a Rockette at best, a groupie at worst, always discovered by my parents moving wildly in the center of some dance floor filled with drunk adults.
Ask anyone and they would tell you that cities like Rome, Florence, and Venice are, hands down, bucket list items. You gotta see the canals! The Sistine Chapel! The statue of David! they would echo like that nasally woman in Seinfeld ("You gotta see the baby!") For me, it's Naples.
At the foot of Piazza Umberto lies a scallop shell white church dating back to the 10th century, unassuming curb appeal compared to the other gaudy, baroque-era cathedrals in Italy. A sign outside warns of a local legend that it’s bad luck for newlyweds to walk hand-in-hand down its steps post-nuptials, lest you bring ill-will upon your marriage and curse yourself for a rocky road ahead of early divorce and untimely death.
Amalfi was the thing of dreams if you looked past the flash: plump, bright yellow lemons in baskets beckoning my insatiably curious, grubby American hands.
At the absolute end of Atrani lies your very own secret garden, if you're up to the challenge.
American Food & Drink is one of the many quirky shops you'll find in Salerno's old quarters.
Adriatic waters calmly splash against the ritzy yachts in the harbor. Preteens scheme in the plaza, wreaking havoc outside an ongoing mass, "bicicletas!" at their hips. A chorus line of soaring palm trees separates the new town from the old. Impregnable stone walls as ancient as dirt protect the cathedral of San Nicola from the revelers convening at bar-hop row. Old women use their thumbprints to meticulously form individual orecchiette, lay them out to dry on folding tables outside their homes.
Air sickness, long overnight layovers, sketchy car rentals, misinterpreting the colones to dollars conversion, sand fleas, planes grounding for inclement weather, getting lost on Costa Rican back roads, screaming geckos while trying to sleep, missing our ferry, barely making check-in times, and a near-deadly stomach virus mere weeks before the trip were just a few things that plagued our one-week vacation to Costa Rica. But it was just what the doctor ordered.
"You have a nice figure, Gringa. But you could still get a little more meat on your bones."
Type A For Andrea 