how lovely this ñ is, melting under the tip of the tongue like a lullaby. going to hear the lullaby people. i was told i need to hang in there for about 43hours. it was 47 and possibly more minutes, but not a second over 2 days, no. i counted. every pit stop, or do they call it pee stops. every sore muscle and every muscle cramp.
the dark chocolate helps.
fog in italy, too.
i'm holding the viewfinder to my eye when she calls out "signora, signora", they don't want pictures of the restaurant. i point to the fog outside the glass to the waitress and she nods her head like she knows.
every little thing is white, every surface and every line, trees and crops and transported cars and every way is strictly forbidden. the white feels like it's lasting three months, so i'm sleeping all the way through, with numb toes and half a face numb as well. everybody else is numb, napping away, so when we actually wake up it's already afternoon or tomorrow or maybe next week because there's torino.
five year old girl next to me zooms in all the streets and every person walking on them. she wants the city too. everyone in this crammed bus woke up and wants to see other humans moving again. there is bird glass and round shaped business building windows. the language is easy, ricorda like ricotta. la stampa, like mother of all stamps everywhere. stamps on papers. newspapers. and magazines. or like a fruit tart. uscita like a special cheese pie. easy words, all sounds like food. when everything sounds like food, i grab another sandwich.
technology is hard. old men standing, figuring out missed calls on their cellphones. scrolling through contacts, touching their touchscreens with their frozen thumbs. the kebab seems to be repeated, or redone, or reordered. or just owned by a grey haired guy named renzo. photography by koudelka from the beginning of december all the way through may. a red something in the hand of someone waiting and a wrapped something on someone's balcony.
on the outskirts, a factory called CARAMEILE and i wonder is it really about caramels. it should be. the birds are flying for real this time and before we reach the french riviera, everything's dark again.
