Finding the Sandman

À Paris, 28
       I wore a lime green tank top and shorts. I escaped Seattle (whose weather you’re no doubt familiar with) and into the cold and wet of Paris. The cities are both cold and wet, except that they are different types of colds and wets. Paris is unpredictable. The sun dominates the morning, deceiving the unseasoned traveler into wearing tank tops, and shorts. But some time midday the sky decides it cannot hold the water any longer. And it lets it spill. Like a true Seattlelite, I let it soak my skin. It will save me a trip to the pool later. Parisians can’t hold their water, it’s a fact. They huddle like ants, in twos, threes, under the two inches of awning in front of McDonalds. I walk into the sea. Fully clothed.
       I went to the Eiffel Tower in a lavender tank top and shorts, of course. There are only so many things that can be washed by hand. Again, the rain comes. I think it’s my shorts that does it. There, you see me. No, I did not put my thumb on the lens. That’s the rain like a lace held over a bride’s face. Zoom in—I have a hint of a smile, a reminder of home. And really, I think my tank top looks better with polka dots. My crazy hair (when is it not crazy?) would make Einstein proud.

A Roma, 24
       It is too dark to see. The train rumbles too much, threatening to jump off the tracks. The light overhead bathes the cabin in an eerie, cold blue. I work as if by candlelight. The Roman Forum, Caesar, Cicero, the Republic. My legs dangling over the bunk to maximize workspace, but to no avail. The (nice) French family has taken over this cabin. Lights off at nine. But I need to see, and read and write. Ne parlons pas anglais. I had planned to work a little, watch the countryside transform before my eyes, sip a little tea as the train coasted leisurely. But one problem: no light. Oh, and no tea. And not leisurely.
       I stumbled into this gated city. Up escalators, out doors, into taxi. But I have been back, and there are no escalators. Do these escalators exist only in my mind? The city wrings water from the blue skies and deposits the drops on me. At night, I hang out to dry.

A Forum Romanum, 60
       I am sure that I am still awake. Pinch me, please, just to be sure. This afternoon, I told my restless muscles and pain-dulled bones that they need rest, but they don’t listen anymore. I remember talking, gesturing, walking, tripping. I remember people nodding, thinking, then nodding off. I was at the Roman Forum in a light blue tank top and shorts. I blended into the sky, then dropped back down, mid-conversation. I nodded my way into it, as per protocol, I think. In the background, oversized Italian policemen (with their tiny car) are arresting a subdued Indian man. It’s funny, they are dressed as tourists, with Nike checks on an orange so bright it competes with the Roman sun.
       I had no camera, for sprinters do not carry such clumsy things. (Yes, I sprinted to the Forum). We run, here, there, following the wind and the shadows of the sun. But I shall show you a picture from my mind, so that you can see the funniness of the disproportionality.
       What do you mean you can’t see clearly?
       Curious, the figures are blurry, the edges melded together.
              Sun slanting, bathing
              Tired, worn arches of history,
              All out of focus.

tw, #24