California Knows how to Party

It’s a compulsion sometimes—to write. It hits me at the most inconvenient times, and then at others I struggle to fill a page. So what am I? A writer or a wannabe? A lot of the time I feel as if I’m updating this journal out of guilt because I think to myself, “Lord knows I won’t take pictures, and then what will I have in my senile old age besides a trick hip and a bad case of the gout?” Don’t ask me why I’m already anticipating such ailments; it’s just a hunch. Plus, my foam flip flops have zero arch support: a quality that cannot be conducive to healthy bone development for the elderly. Regardless, please know that right now my muse has hit me at one of the most inconvenient times so far this trip.

I am currently lounging in the window seat (score) of a bus, blazing a path towards Siena. However, as I said, this drive is wasted on me. Instead of admiring the pruned vineyards, the rolling sun flower fields, and the brown brick buildings which I pretend to appreciate because they supposedly have a “history” behind them, I am left to battle off carsickness as I stare at the chicken scratch scrawling from my pen onto my passport photocopy.

Gina has the right idea. She is sitting at my side, indulging in a much needed REM cycle since she averages maybe four hours of sleep a night due to a nasty found-in-Florence cough and a grueling American-made forty-hour work week. Indeed, she is truly dead to the world. I should know. I have spent the past ten minutes accidentally jabbing her in the ribs with my constant fidgeting. I HAVE RESTLESS BODY SYNDROME!

Anyway, excuse me. You must think that I am so rude. I haven’t formally introduced the dare devils who risk their sanity everyday just so that they can live with me. After all, you’ll get bored if I only talk about myself—I’m not exactly a personality teetering on the brink of remarkable. My roommates, perhaps, are much more intriguing than I am. In fact, maybe by the end of this, some of you will actually prefer them to me.

Hailing from San Diego, California and measuring in at staggering 5’4”, Gina Baxter (or, as you may know her, the chick who got stuck in my room) is the epitome of what a Californian is supposed to be. And, to her embarrassment, not a day goes by that I don’t remind her of this. So what’s the profile of a stereotypical Californian? In terms of dress, two words: Bohemian Chic. No one else can glide out of a closet, repping the west coast like she can. Everything from her edgy, yet inspirational, shoulder, back, and wrist tattoos covered slightly by her layered tops, to her leggings, Chucks, and bangles screams a modern Haight-Ashbury hippie. This means that if the clothes, as they say “make the man” or in this case, “the woman,” then it goes without saying that Gina has a few more cool points than I do. Who knows, maybe I’m lacking in that area because I was lame enough to call it “cool points” or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here in conservative capris and a black shirt, meticulously recording this trip. Whatever the reason, I am hoping that by simply living with this girl, my street cred will skyrocket. No luck so far.

I should breathe a sigh of relief into all who are reading this. I promise that I won’t discuss every member of this trip in vast detail. That is not to suggest, however, that the unmentioned do not play a role in my “experience,” it just means that I’m too lazy to caricature seventeen people. Remember, I’m doing this work on my own Euro. Instead I’ll spare you and go two deep down the bus row.

I feel obligated to begin with Miss Maguire and Miss Engstrom, partially because they are directly behind me, are tall enough to peak over the seats, and have been glancing curious looks in my direction for the past couple minutes. Maybe I should start writing horribly incriminating hate messages just to scare the bejesus out of them! How could I, though? I’d lose the two best things to share a wall with me.

Yes, yes, very perceptive. They are my neighbors. The two blonde Bobbsey twins live in the room left of Gina and me, and are, besides us of course, the winner of the Dynamic Duo award. Of course you have no idea why I say this. In fact you are quite at my mercy. If I say that they are good friends, you have no choice but to blindly nod along and agree with me. However, to put their relationship in perspective, let me explain myself with another story.

At home in Burnsville, I live next door to an old couple named the Newinskys. Now, I am no expert, but it has always been my theory that Tom and Mary Ann were high school sweethearts who, one night, shared a close dance together at the senior prom, made a few bad decisions afterwards and, nine months later, were chained together for the rest of their lives, blaming the world for their mistake. Well, Christy and Emma are the exact opposite of the crotchety persona that the Newinskys exude. And no, for you morally provincial readers, these two are not a couple. Instead, they are just two girls who bond over jars (plural) of Nutella chocolate, finish each other’s sentences, and bicker as if they have been married for a strong sixty two years. Needless to say it’s an honor that they allow me to barge into their rooms on a daily basis.

Now, not to abruptly change the subject, but I am of the opinion that this is a sufficient description (for now) of my neighbors. Old Enid and Agnes (Emma and Christy, respectively), though, are resentful that I lumped them together in a single paragraph, as if they were only “one person.” However, I merely set out to stress their soul mate status, not to offend. For this, I apologize. I’d also like to briefly mention before go one, Miss Bianca Pisano (Mamma B) because she’d throw her Diskman at me if I didn’t include her. Mamma B doesn’t live with us, but she does burst through our apartment door much as Cosmo Kraemer would if he were in Italy with us.

Who knows? With characters like these maybe this blog thing will develop into my very own Sit Com.