Diana's Various and Sundry Essays

The Travels of a Pronoun

She thought that stumbling blindly to her uncle's Cressida, laden with a new and enormous suitcase (containing, of course, only the bare necessities for her soon-to-be-embarked-upon Europe trip) was probably a very fitting way to begin her adventure. However, when the in-car conversation (known as a "monologue" in some parts of the world) turned into an enumeration of the many logistical nightmares that an attempt at conversion to the metric system in America might cause, and was followed by the helpful souvenir suggestion to bring back any odd thing she could carry off from somewhere inconspicuously, she felt that sense of aptness begin to slip slowly away, to crawl off and die in some ambiguous mental stairwell—cold, alone, and unwashed.

The flight was interminable. Her seatmate was an amazingly eager and genuine young man from her class, who made as many attempts as he could to engage her in some form of intelligent or meaningful conversation, finally gave up, and went to sleep on his own lap. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate him, nor was it that she wouldn't become better acquainted with him later on during the trip; she simply didn't like to discuss cloud formations for several consecutive epochs. The migration of the flight attendant-powered beverage cart from one end of the plane to the other served as her entertainment for a while, until a feeling of pervasive ennui came over her and she decided to amuse herself by writing in her journal, though there was little to recount at that point, and mostly she recorded her unattainable desire to become the next Lemony Snicket. Goodness how sad.

Finally the flights were over, and the long-anticipated arrival in Europe had been accomplished. Through her haze of exhaustion, she managed to be vaguely aware that she was, in fact, excited about it. After a rather uneventful but generally terrifying bus ride, the group disembarked and quietly invaded their hotel outside of Rome. It turned out to be warm, clean, and homey. Naturally, this went generally unnoticed by her until after she had eaten. (During that meal, she had two epiphanies--one shallow and one profound--that in conjunction opened her mind up to new possibilities and eventually greatly affected the rest of her freshman year.)

After the filling repast of pasta, peas, and cheese, she returned to her briefly-visited room and began a short but enjoyable tradition: sitting on the wooden windowsill of her second-floor room and writing in her travel journal. This time, she wrote of the night sounds, and noted for posterity that there was a highly explorable Via Diana next to the hotel that would have endless possibilities until the truth was uncovered. She decided to put off the exploration for the time being. For the moment, she was happy in Italy, and decided that though she could write nothing that a million travel writers had not discussed before, all that was positive that had ever been written about the subject was true, so far as her few hours of experience could tell. She knew that her heart would ever be entwined with Italy. And then she chided herself severely for sounding like Alice, shuddered, extracted herself from the window, and went to sleep.

The next day she toured the Vatican and saw the Colosseum. The guide, Margarita, was surly and amusing. Instead of the usual printed tour signs that most guides held, she kept track of us with an umbrella. It matched her knee-socks.

At the Spanish Steps, two young men from the group took pictures of our protagonist. She felt oddly like a tourist attraction, which was new. Her thoughts turned briefly to her cousin (as they occasionally did on this trip because she had been talked at so much about Europe recently), and she mused that the dear young woman would have reveled in it, and not have thought it strange for an instant. That entertained her.

At Trevi Fountain, she and her group of companions sat and gazed upon young Italian police officers. (Hopefully the male members of the group were gazing at the Fountain itself...) The lust in her eyes was readily apparent to those around her, and they didn't find it particularly difficult to convince her to ask to have her picture taken with the delightful uniformed young men.

For lunch, she had the most poignantly delicious spaghetti that she was likely ever to consume in the course of her entire lifetime. Even today she sometimes craves it. That is an unfortunate and continuing problem with no real solution--always the most fun, if one enjoys self-pity.

In the evening, the Via Diana called to her. It was short and residential, but sloped steeply upwards at the end. That gave it the character she was hoping it might have, and she liked it. Afterwards, she sat in the lobby and wrote in her journal, becoming steadily more exhausted with each passing minute. Eventually, she retired to her room and slept soundly. The next day, some of the group went to Pompeii, and the rest returned to Rome to gallivant about giddily. At one point, the males of the small group that she was a part of purchased flowers for the females of the group. She was surprised, pleased, and immensely grateful. She pressed them faithfully in her tour journal. She ate gelato, which pleased her to the depths of her soul.

In Siena, she shopped for souvenirs, but mostly basked in the company of the charming friends who would later add so much "interest" to her life. She had her picture taken with a friend, and later decided that it would have been much better for all concerned if she hadn't.

In Florence, she admired the Duomo nearly as much as Michelangelo must have, while eating gelato and immensely appreciating her own purchases of genuine Italian leather. She reveled in the stationery stores, purchasing endless items from them simply because it made her indescribably happy to acquire such things. She hung out with her group and "The David", sneaking pictures and observing fellow Canadians that she had the privilege to realize were Canadian, be impressed with, and not speak to out of a feeling of fraternité that was intangible and very likely a typically Canadian delusion. The group paid way too much for a rather bizarre and microwave-esque lunch, and tried to set one of the male members up with the blonde waitress. No luck.

Later, while some of the class decided to enjoy the nightlife, the rest staggered tiredly through the streets of Florence, searching for a place to sit down and have some hot chocolate. When they arrived at the elusive restaurant, she paid the equivalent of ten American dollars for a delicious hot chocolate topped with equally delicious and expensive whipped cream. When she went outside to wait for the rest of the group by a randomly placed heat lamp, she met two older gentlemen who appeared, by their accents, to be British. One of them posed the highly unexpected question, "Where are you from?" She answered, and the somewhat astonishing reply was an amusing, but positive, "I knew it!"

In Pisa, she climbed an inordinate number of stairs, purchased more gelato, and scavenged pizza from a friend. She found that eating pizza in Pisa was remarkably punny and filed it under H for hilarity in her brain.

At Fragonard, the French perfume factory, she spent money enthusiastically, but refused to regret it. After all, how often is one able to buy a yellow soap duck painstakingly hand-carved by an authentic French person?

In Monaco, she ordered a baguette from a French-speaking woman of a decidedly snippy disposition. While she was enjoying it, she attempted to locate the other members of her group. In her search, she set foot inside another eating establishment, merely to gaze about for her queries. A woman behind the counter, with a similar disposition to the other, remarked that it might be a good idea to not come in any further, and that it might be an even better idea to turn around and proceed away expeditiously. Our protagonist very nearly said, "D’accord. Vous êtes française. Je comprends." But she decided not to, in the end, figuring that it would probably be a bit of a waste of time and French.

In Nice, she managed to get lost with a friend, and they climbed more European steps until they reached the top of a rather tall cliff. The view was incomparable, and another picture was taken. Again, she would later decide that it was an unnecessary event to have occurred. Later, she purchased a small dress from a children's shop. With an uncle's friend's baby girl in mind, she giddily charged it to her credit card. Sadly, she grew so attached to the garment that she decided to keep it for her own girl child, should she have one someday. That, she thought, was singularly impressive foresight. One of her friends later decided to purchase a birthday present for her in France. She settled on a small bag of chocolate-covered almonds from a chocolaterie, which she later determined had been a mistake; she really had little interest in tasting anything less delicious than those almonds ever again, which presented rather numerous difficulties.

At supper, the darling young men of the class presented the women of the class, as well as the women of the high school group that had been tagging along haphazardly, with flowers, declaring, "No woman should ever walk the streets of Nice without a flower." Her tour journal was quickly becoming a pressed-flower collection instead of a pressed-writing collection.

At the airport, on the way out, a woman saw our protagonist's Canadian passport, asked her in French if she were Canadian, and was delighted with the response. Throughout the rest of the journey, this fellow passenger decided that it was probably best to pat our protagonist each time she ran into her. Our protagonist purchased last-minute souvenirs in the airport gift shop and ate a croissant that spoiled such pastries for her for the rest of her life. At Heathrow, she briefly glimpsed the opportunity to stay in London for the night and leave the next day. Unfortunately, it was only a glimpse, and the dream quickly faded for her when her name was not called to stay behind. That was unfortunate.

Finally she arrived at LAX, sleep-deprived, disheveled, and starving, but happy nonetheless. She ate some toast in the company of her groggy cousin, and went to sleep.

Looking back on her adventures from a more distant vantage point, she knows that her trip greatly affected her life. Exactly how and why she has not yet been able to determine. But in the short-term, at least, the trip was profoundly life-altering. It allowed her to bond with people she may not have become close to in any other circumstance. It gave her memories and jokes (shot glasses, imaginary books, and "vivas") that have carried over for several months, and that will probably continue to be a source of great amusement while she remains in contact with her fellow travelers. Not in all cases did this bonding turn out to be a happy occurrence, but it was quite possibly a necessary one nonetheless. The journey expanded her ability to view other cultures and allowed her to gain a better understanding of them first-hand. When all is said and done, she would not trade her experiences in Europe for anything, and hopes to someday return. However, she realizes that to recreate such events would be impossible, and recognizes that further European adventures will have to become their own entity, without expectations or comparisons.



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