tight chested.

This feels unfinished because I don't think I can handle finished. Everything seems to be that way now a days. I'm okay with this trip ending but I'm not holey prepared to deal with myself or my continuing. I didn't expect this, all my thoughts of home felt warm and comforting like blankets or tea but somehow these same places now feel awkward and frustrating, I'm out of place in my own skin. This makes finishing, or deciding what do next feel like wearing a coat that's a size to small. Tight chested, I hold options that I knew were waiting for me but none of them feel appropriate, so I just keep looking at them as if they are going to somehow shift into things that feel better, things that feel right. It has been a whirlwind since Geneva a city that more than ever seems like a dream. I miss my friends, my daily routine, and having purpose I think stings the most. Its as if a cruel joke allowed me to see inside a door told me"this is what your life could be like" and then slammed it in my face. "End this blog on a high note Heidi" is all I could tell myself but as January approaches I realize its time to finish this with honesty, an emotion I have revealed little lately. I've masked loneliness,disappointment, and a stew of sour emotions because who wants to be that whining girl, whoa is me from my trip to Europe. Even more then no one wants to hear it I don't want to be it but that doesn't change my situation. It doesn't change the feeling of homelessness. Not actually homeless but being in places without the feeling of home, now its very cold in Michigan but I think sometimes the latter is the worst of the options. For graduation I went through the motions but yet with most things as of late it lacked the internal enthusiasm I hoped it would summit. Going to Pittsburgh with Bea was an escape but the inevitability of life waited patiently in Michigan, just as it did December 1st when I hugged Bryan goodbye in the Leonardo Da Vinci airport. I felt the same then, I felt like me still and now... now...it just feels ugly. How do I have these rude feelings in the faces of people who love me? I don't. Maybe another disappearing act would work at least when I'm away I have reason to feel out of place. This angsty post is even nauseating for me to read. The problems of white suburbia are hardly worth writing about.

wade in the wake of it.

Now there is no way I am supposed to be in this train car. When the man checking tickets smirked winked and a punched a whole in my ticket I chocked it up to Italian gusto but as Im offered complimentary champagne I much better understand his message. On a strange whim I wore a black dress to travel in, and now as the Dolce and Gabana bags pass my seat I'm happy with my decision. I can’t help but feel that this train is taking me home, there’s a certain warmth that was uniquely Italian that is replaced with arrogance in the city of Geneva. I hadn’t noticed its absence until I was reminded by kind this slight of hand. Maybe its my grandfathers botched Italian slang that makes me particularly fond of this country, who knows. As I switched trains in Milan Beethovens Fifth was playing and I couldn’t help but smile. Brian will be waiting for me at the train station, and I look forward to spending my last day in Utopia with a new friend from Geneva. He is a small guy who dresses clean and would always bounce into my room to share chocolate or chat about the silly happenings of the day. His air of fabulous follows him and I will gladly wade in the wake of it. I have that itching yet again to leave my cares packed in my bags and let the beauty of Rome engulf me. Now there’s plenty to worry myself with but they are not going anywhere fast and will surly be waiting for me upon my arrival home. Its as if the wind nudged me into this first class seat to remind me to enjoy myself. Grazie.

Time: please ignore my ramblings

Just before I left, Belinda in the elegant manor of older sister fought my dragon sized fears that tied my stomach into knots with her calm and steady sentence structure. "Think of the friends you have now, at one time you didn't know them at all. Now they are the people your closest with." It made perfect sense. "Only in theory" I convinced myself. Surly the practice would be a much more complicated predicament filled with forced smiles and those awkward "stop and chat" conversations I have grown to despise. She was right though and it turned out to be one of those things that 4 extra years on a planet will teach you. Her voice solid with the confidence she knew I needed chimes in when I think about the people I was nervous even be around but now feel almost as comfortable as home. Now in any normal situation three months would seem miniscule to even get to know someone but this is a unique version of friendship, one from concentrate. As quickly as my three months here has passed when I think back at what has happened time contorts and a year may have passed for all I know. The pictures show proof and explain the timeline but that doesn't stop me from wondering who the girl looking out for the very top of St. Peters Basilica is, surly not I. It's silly almost that I came all the way to Europe to make friends with people who live a state below me, not to mention Caitlin who lives in East Lansing for Christ sake. Life is just funny that way I suppose. Coming home and leaving these people swirls a hurricane of mixed emotion. It will never be like this anymore, never in my life will this odd group of characters come tromping down the steps, into the creepy community kitchen, tired from work but with enough light left to keep company with friends. Good friends too, ones that know strangely too much about you for someone who was a stranger in August. Its not that I want to stay in the half way house deemed "Circ de Cenacle" for the fellow freak shows who reside in it, I just want to press pause for a while. The movie is in fast forward, it has been since I left for Chicago. Maybe for aday or two slow motion could kick in. I have this gross feeling that it’s all this way really, I mean where has college gone. Poof. Do I have any other options but to keep letting this river tow me away? Should I be afraid? If so of what? Life? Now wouldn't that be a waste. My ramblings get the best of me but have been cluttering behind my eyes and make falling asleep at night next to impossible.I wonder what Bea would say to soothe my current state.

full circle I suppose.

"...If there is a load, that you have to bear, that you can't carry...." There soft toned rendition of Lean on me helped calm the rolling waves of motion sickness during our nauseating bus ride to Annecy, France. The low thick fog and autumn covered mountains (that I'm sure were beautiful) were lost while I stared at the floor, listened to my friends adorable singing voices, and tried my to hold down breakfast. The remainder of the day I promise you was exceptionally more charming. Chris bought me a San Pellegrino and with a pat on the back we headed to the cobblestone streets that intermingle with canals. We traipse around the misty air and sample cheeses from the Sunday market stands we pass. When you see buildings with ages you can hardly fathom, imagining who else has walked these same paths left me with an emotion that lies somewhere between eerie and excited. The whole city had that same tone and the thick ever present fog only added to the appeal. I went to my first castle where we joked of our plans for buying it. "It's nice and all but we'll have to work on insulation." Chris tells me. "Of course " I assure him "but theirs so much square footing, and I think the piano would look splendid over there." I posed as queen for an afternoon and at lunch I ate like a princess. A chevre cheese crepe and fresh spring salad lunch with a dessert crepe of homemade Carmel and fresh whip cream erased any hint of nausea and deepened my respect for the french and their attention to detail. The sprinkling rain curled my hair as we continued on our promenade. Activities like stopping for Mulled orange wine and crossing the Bridge of Love add to the ambiance of this fairy tale town. As we walked to the old prison that is now displayed as a museum I imagined the prisoners in the 1300's making this same walk, many of which I learned would be their last view of the world not threw iron bars. Within this island of a building the eerie out weighed the excitement, and while laying on the old prisoners beds was entertaining it left a residue on my back of misery that lingered longer than I hoped. The sun set put a nip to the air that directed us into a tiny restaurant run by a women who couldn't of looked more french. Her sharp noes and wild hair gave us a guided tour of her menu accentuating her local and homemade products with pride and integrity. She offers us free aperitifs since " Young students have little money", boy is she right. She was the kind of person who's expressions made the room glow like the candles lit on our table. As any wise traveller does we all tried her house favorites and local cuisines which I think nearly made her night. I can say that the bus ride home was far more pleasant but questions of the future did churn in my stomach. Soon I will be..umm...hmm... what is the end of that sentence, if I knew it maybe I could of rested at ease at the end of my prefect day. "Just stay here in the tower of your castle Heidi, ride bike your over cobblestone tiny streets with a baguette stuck in the basket." my imagination begs. Reality trails quickly behind laughing a sarcastic grumble and reminds me of the loans that are due, the jobs to be had, and the grad schools are to be applied for. With only 3 weeks left my fairy tale is fading away like a dream you wake up from and try to force yourself back into. You were just there, practically held it in your hands and in a counter intuitive pattern your diamond turned to coal and that coal into ash. If you look away for only a moment it promises to all blow away. This time around, where home is the unfamiliar territory, I recognize this feeling as the same one I had on a bus in Rome. Full circle I suppose. This time I carry a powerful bag of ammo acquired over the last few months, just in time for my next big gig. Now facing this change my only fear is that life will stop handing out such interesting mountains to climb. It promised it would as long as I try my hardest not to throw up on the ride there. With the soft support of friendship and all of the strength I can summon, it's a promise I can keep.

Carpooling Zombies?

To me Halloween is a rare chance to be someone else, to play a role that on any normal day would seem impossible. Saturday presented itself as the perfect opportunity for just that. Having to work on arguably the best holiday, in a country that doesn't celebrate it, seems like as a complete and utter bust but I suppose I have acquired talents for making the best out of mediocre situations. Bright and early that morning I learned I would be the rapporteur for the NGO statement drafting to be presented at the UN Economic Commission of Europe Monday morning. That's jargon for the person who collects, organizes and writes the statement for the NGO group to present to governments (who will probably be daydreaming,) but either way its my words there not listening to and I like that. About ten women each from their own organization with their own priorities barked ideas at me that they felt necessary to present. Thankful for four years of lecture note taking and my keyboarding class in middle school I listened and tried to make sense out of there ramblings that they were expecting a document to come out of. What is more terrifying than any ghost or goblin was the expectations that were now placed on my shoulders, the stress rolled in the form of heartburn that ravished the back of my throat. It was this person who debated the necessary importance of policy implementation with seasoned feminists that I hardly recognised as myself. I was told I spoke like I was french by two women from France ( still not sure what that means) and also told happy Halloween from a women from Northern Ireland all in the same sitting. All of them looking to me, or a more professional, smart, elegant version of me for results which I sure enough produced, printed and distributed all before lunch. This life within the NGO world has become my norm, it feels permanent and comfortable making my life prior to this seem more and more like unfamiliar territory. But quickly enough I rush home and put on a much different mask, the lighthearted silly girl I present to my peers. Leaving all concerns of gender inequalities at the door. This girl listens to the monster mash while she draws on whiskers for her mouse costume in preparation for the cat and mouse duo that will bring mayhem to the streets of Geneva. Is the same person who drafted a UN resolution now dancing at a disco-tech with Napoleon Bonaparte? I suppose so although I hardly recognise either of them. I expected the holidays, like my birthday to be lacking in this strange city. But the girl who awkwardly turned 22 here two months ago now forgets sometimes that shes even in Switzerland, to wrapped up in the beauty of it all I suppose. Last night I saw a group of Zombies staggering down the street while we waited for the tram to take us home. They moaned with there arms out and they filed into cars and drove away. Carpooling zombies? I thought to myself, this strange yet uniquely Swiss event reminded me of what a time I'm having here in Geneva.

somewhere between reality and the mystics.

À la vie is said as a toast, it means to life and that is something I will raise a glass to.Life, that serendipitous dance partner I often tango with spun and held me once again. Although many nights were spent in our tiny pub that's usually filled with expats and cigarette smoke tonight the stars had a far more interesting evening for Heidi LeeAnn, and I think if I were listening I could of heard them giggling at my predicament. Now to preface this tale of twisted fate I must remind you that most nights spent here are remembered in a foggy blur some where between reality and the mystics, a dream within a dream. The aggressive encounters or tiny interactions that seem to only make for memorable stories all presented themselves in that same tiny bar over my pint of 1664. Luckily my leather jacket provided just enough confidence to make these reunions pleasant and silly instead of heavy in the bag of awkward I usually carry with me. " Heidi!, Heidi!" I hear barking behind me "Caitlin is someone calling my name?" She says no but her eyes read that I simply don't want to respond to the person requesting my attention. I turn around and find a familiar Italian that we will refer to as "the catalyst". At this very bar close to where I am standing now about a month ago him and his francophone friend bought Caitlin and I drinks. Telling us it was "the new in thing" he had the bartender put a tequila shot in all of our beers, being a classic girl, I declined the offer that sadly Caitlin was not to aware of. After one sip and a sour face she offers this 13 dollar drink to the dapper man standing next to her, Raphael. They hit it off and we spent the whole night dancing and ditched our above mentioned "spring board" for new Swiss friends. Since their relationship has blossomed into something rather nice we should be thanking the guy I am turning around to, but instead smile and act like its a reunion of old friends. A bit later whilee ordering a drink I realize that I have been spotted. Shit, I mumble and hide my face with my hair but I know its to late, the Irish ginger I talked to for entirely to long last weekend remembers the American girl he tried to teach a jig too. For almost the entire evening I master the art of avoidance. During one of my many dodging secessions a beautiful Swiss girl taps me on the shoulder, what now'I wonder, but her news is pleasant and welcomed. "My friend thinks you are very pretty, but is too shy to say it so, now I say for him, you should talk, yes?" Alex from Zurich, I've met him before and will probably always recognize that tousled hair. Very early in the trip when we were only three students from MSU Caitlin took notice to him just as he was leaving our infamous pub. In a mood far unlike me I pull Caitlin along onto the stoop and stare at him, shamelessly with no real plan of what will happen next. But it works. We talk outside about his grad school program and our livings in Geneva but only for a few minutes and then he troops off into the night, assuming to never be seen again, assuming. That is until we laugh and talk until last call, all the while the Swiss girls gives me thumbs up from across the table, proud of her match making. "I hope to see you again" he tells me after the customary alternating cheek kisses. "Of course" I tell him remembering the phone number I acquired from the first meeting in early September. As I wait out side for Caitlin to ditch the abrasive Canadians shes been defending America to, a certain drunken Irish man comes barrelling out of the bar full speed, directly at me. " You!!" he yells far too loud with a thick accent. If he wasn't such a short man I may have been nervous, but with a face as red as his hair it was really just humorous. He invites me dancing but I decline. "Always leaving me this one is." he tells the people trailing out of the bar. Caitlin being one of them, links arms with me and pull me away and off down the cobble stoned hill, away from all these unlikely characters. Part of me wonders still if they ever existed at all.

She went to see a Mystic who made medicine from rain. And gave up her existence to feel everything, dream others' dreams. Bid farewell to her family with one ecstatic wave (Please take care I love you all) Out the window as the car rolled away. She just vanished into a thick mist of change.

my beautiful picture

Food itself has a beautiful culture. Regardless of location the special attention paid to cuisine is a savory blend of geography and personal taste- something I have always been quite fond of. The complexity of food runs much deeper than the end result of dinner, and I believe it is the journey to that place that I am madly in love with. It starts with Saturdays farmers market, that lies on the french side of the Swiss border. I'm not sure why but I decided a while ago that once I arrive here I only speak french, and its a fun game I play with the adorable scruffy bearded farmers. I usually resort to that quite mademoiselle who over thanks and smiles alot but hey is that person really so bad? I don't think so, in fact a quite enjoy her.These short yet invigorating interactions always make my heart race and make something as small as buying cheese a challenge. The dairy farmer with clean but worked hands slices samples for me to try and then chuckles at my reactions to the flavor that I have personally deemed "elephant". I suppose this is a fun game for him as well. As recommended, I ask for the fromage du cumin,(great choice belinda) and I can tell my selection makes him think twice about this silly American with little taste for bleu cheese. The game continues, he asks how much I would like and although I hear others responding with weights and amounts I'm only quipped with "en pue"... (a little). he nods and asks in English if the amount he has chosen will do and I persevere with my Français and tell him it's perfect "Parfait!". This continues with each stand yet each exchange is a touch different depending on the character. My favorite fruit seller sing-speaks about fruit and calls me Bella which is unnecessary really because he had me at pamplemousse. The conversation starts after my attempted french leads him wondering what my native tongue really is. "Deutsche?" he asks, "Non" I respond. Espagnol? Anglais?. I laugh and he realizes I'm not giving up on this one so he slowly continues in french and he keeps asking me to talk louder although I think he can hear me, hes trying to get me to raise my confidence and my voice together. It kind of works. As I'm walking away with my apples he asks "Estate- Unis?" (United states?). "Qui" I tell him, while he mock cheers himself for the obvious. With produce in bags strung over my shoulder I head to the grocery store where products like crepe batter, pre-made duck confit, jars of bechemele sauce and croissant dough are readily available. Meal creation becomes a gourmet mental party. Unintentionally I wow my peers with the elaborate dinners I create that put that their grilled cheese to shame. I cook because I love it , its my art. Getting the timing right and finding complementary flavors is putting a puzzle together to make a beautiful picture, my beautiful picture. Dinner is one place I realize that I am the oldest person on this trip. There is a certain level of maturity and independence that differentiates between eating to sustain and eating for the beauty of it all. It is here that life reminds my soul how old it is. Bon appetit mon ame.

with green eyes as round as her cheeks

"Chocolate how could you? I thought we were friends,” I ask while holding my stomach. The trip to the Cailler Chocolate factory left me delusionally speaking to candy. I'm not sure how it all happened to be honest, like a car crash I found myself dazed, with time lapse and confusion of events. Near the end of the tour we followed our noses to the sampling center, which I assumed would mean a few pieces of chocolate an maybe a glass of water, boy was I wrong. The display of several trays filled a twenty-foot stretch with every type of chocolate bar, log and truffle they craft. I went Augustice Gloop on that room and tried every different type. The hazelnut cream and coco Noir truffles covered my hands and filled my mouth with what started as enjoyment and ended as endurance. The further we went down the line the more decadent and rich the pieces became. What started as a simple bar ended with a work of art that unfortunately I can't even say I enjoyed all to much. The remainder of the tour I kept my head down trying not look at the rivers of even more chocolate to keep from making a waterfall of my own. Bear with me now, I know I’ve made better choices than that one. What came over me? Lord only knows. A little girl with green eyes as round as her cheeks leapt forward and with disregard to her consequences said, "I want it all!" and proceeded to have just that. This was of course the second leg of out Tour du rich foods. Earlier that afternoon was spent in Gruyerè, the tiny little Alpine Village that claims the rights to any cheese bearing its name. With cowbells chiming against a picturesque backdrop we hiked back to the town after missing our stop on the train. Parts of me still wonder if that tiny train actually existed. Up the huge hill we hiked while I told my new friends from Ohio the story of Heidi. Well, I told them my version of it which adds comments like "...and with the charm that all Heidi's are born with she totally won grandfather over." or " oh and then her aunt forced her into indentured servitude, yea her aunt was kind of a bitch". My comedic version of the Swiss tale made the 100 steps to the top go by quickly and if it wasn't for the up hill climb than I would know it was the view that took my breath away. For the first time after almost two months I was in the Switzerland I had grown up picturing, one with mountains that peeked above the clouds and houses that resembled cuckoo clocks. With cows an arm reach away we ate lunch at La Maison du Gruyerè (the house of Gruyerè) and it was there that I ate my first Fondue within Swiss boarders. The server gave us lessons on the importance of swirling the bread to make sure that lunch was remembered as an experience. She was a solid women with her hair in a tight bun and varicose veins that showed through her stockings, the type of women you would find in a school cafeteria only with a more jovial attitude. She urged on my nervous French and applauded her self for actually understanding me. It was this delicious cheese that later churned in my stomach and added to my above mentioned over consumption. Some how after all this we raced back to make the train in time to head home for Geneva. Finding the first train that said Geneva on it we quickly realized that we were in fact stowaways aboard a high speed train returning from Milan. "How European" I thought to myself and continued my pleas with chocolate to end its recent vendetta.

I never got that picture I wanted

I find myself saying more often than not "This is absolutely perfect". The "this" I refer to always changes but the of happiness remains the same. "You look healthy" bell tells me in a poor connected skype conversation. I feel healthy. The happiness I carry with me is pure gold, not muddled with pain or dirt. For those feelings, as my last post reveals have there own time and wont spoill my batch of bliss. Part of the contentment I have begun to embody comes with the reinventing of Heidi. Where I decide what is acceptable and what is not. Where I choose what effects me and what I must let go of. Smoking cigarettes no longer fit with who I've become, so I simply ended that unhealthy relationship,...along with some others that I've been dragging with me for far to long. I've set all that luggage down and decided to leave it there, have it be tobacco or silly boys that hurt my feelings, my dependence on them no longer runs me. When it spears its ugly head and reminds me of what once was, I recognise it for what it is and simply allow it to pass, "goodbye" I say " I have no use for you now." Switzerland has taught me that there is far to much beauty in the world for it not to fill you to the brim with happiness. Yesterday, Caitlin and I took a cable car to the top of a mountain, facing one way you overlooked Geneva turned around and the Alps took your breath away. "This is an image I want forever burned into my head." I mutter to Caitlin who like me until that moment is speechless. Whats funny is how much to literally I would get just that . As we hiked a path atop Mt. Saleve we came across an opening that revealed the Alps more than other areas had. As we approached I hustled for my camera but was stopped by a fence roping off several horses. In an attempt at getting the perfect photo I grabbed the fence to climb under it. It was then that a jolt of electricity raced into my arm through my body and out the opposite foot. For a second my hand was glued to the fence until I forced it off with a gasp. Besides from a racing pulse and a strange tingling I was fine. I never got that picture I wanted, but i think I will remember it forever. On the walk back to the viewpoint I regained my stability and even laughed a bit at the irony of the situation. The air was so clean and cool it made each breath a treat. I hadn't noticed before but for the first time I realized the vice that had held my lungs tight had shattered away and the feeling of a full deep breath filled my being. It was the physical manifestation of empowerment, and it suits me well.

my noes is a bit stuffy

There is some kind of sticky sickness running through my veins , not the physical kind but the emotional...although my nose is a bit stuffy. Parts of it are to naked to reveal to an audience but I assure you its a far deeper feeling than simply missing being home, that's almost become the easy part. I can't even say it is even being here, but something dark has been festering in my chest lately. Now I continue to fill my days with picnic park trips of wine and cheese but this side of me is rarely far from surface. I suppose as i engulf myself in debates of human rights i realise all that I myself am entitled to them as well. It is behind these words that my anger truly lies. I have the right to be respected, to be treated fairly, to be cared for and to receive help when I need it. The black smoke coughs out these demands in irrational fits and watching myself act this way usually makes me cry. You can only do so much before your exhausted, only try so hard before you give up and only forgive so many times before the apologies just lose meaning. If this is what they meant by "finding yourself" then I'm afraid of what I'll turn into. Your talking to someone but can hardly hear them because your head is screaming to loud. In tsunami's these feelings and insecurities come crashing on your shore where they are held by levies because honestly, who the fuck in Geneva gives a shit? Whats funny is this is why I haven't wrote in a while, I was afraid that all these toxins would come spewing out and had not wanted to infect you.

once all of humanity becomes my family

below is the essay i submitted to AmeriCorps with my application. I had to answer what my motivation was for wanting to work with them. Tell me what you think!!



It was not until my second year of college did I know that my life would be committed to helping others. Like clay, there are many facets that shaped me into the person I am today. One of which is my sensitivity to those around me. I have always been known as a sensitive person so leaving my Human Rights class in tears was not anything new. Many would see this sensitivity to emotion as a burden but I truly believe it is my greatest gift. It is the ability to empathies that deepened my need to use the resources I have been given to help those around me. By resources I do not mean I am greatly wealthy, far from it actually. I was raised by a single mother with five siblings; I know what it means to struggle. I knew that I had far more than most, even with what seemed like so little. With the love and support of that large family I pursued my passions and even earned a degree along the way. Their help was necessary and without them I know I would not be shinning as brightly as I do today. Now with hands full of knowledge and ambition how could I thank all the people who made this position possible? Not just my family who does it out of love, but what about the women at churches who gave my mother food for us to eat, or teachers who filled me with the passions that ignited them, or even the friends who simply believed in me what would be enough to thank them. The only thing that could come close to reciprocity would be to do my best to stop a child from going hungry, to share my passions with another or to believe in someone who truly needs it and even then the scale is forever tipped. At the ripe age of twenty two I face a world that is drowning in its own mess. I am not blind to the atrocities that exist in the world and within our own country. I know that these issues are bigger than me, that they span centuries and reach corners of the world I will never touch. This is why I cannot see a more necessary role than that of philanthropy. It is with the sensitivity that in every little girls face I see my own, in the tired eyes of a struggling mother I see the wrinkles of mine. Once all of humanity becomes my family what other option do I really have then to try with all my power to make their lives more beautiful. For how I see it they already have for me so it’s the least I can do.

electric veins

I have a strange and unexplainable love for a five hundred foot tall fountain. Now I'm not one to obsess over landmarks but my care for the Jet d'eau crept on me like Indian summer. I look for it when positioning myself with direction. Part of my love is for the stability it brings me in knowing my location. My internal compass, passed down from my mother that grew stronger with several cross country trips, can rest once my eyes find it peaking over building tops. But the other part is just a regular old irrational love for a Jet, normal right? They built it as a safety value for the city's water, and after realizing how majestic it was kept it around, how Swiss of them. In a classic case of you-don't-know-what-you've-got-till-its gone one day while heading home from work it simply wasn't there. In anunnecessary wave of panic I convinced myself that it would never turn back on, that the signifying tower over the city had disappeared like a lady in a magic show. I learned that they turn it off if it gets to windy which was probably the case, but the point is that I missed it, more than I thought I would. I now smile when I notice it giving it the appreciation it deserves, and even speculate what it would be like to stand under it. When today followed in its familiar pattern of work and dinner, I had no idea what my Jet had in store for me. The gang, after being cooped up in hum drum office work went for a walk around the neighbourhood. In search of cheap dessert we headed to the Pier that is lined with cheap ice cream stands. " un glace du Rose, si vous plait" I ordered comfortably....Rose flavored ice cream, I had to investigate. Now at first it was what I imagined eating a bottle of perfume would be like but after a few licks it grew on me, and i ended up enjoying my strange treat. Heading back towards our home along the Pier we were coming up on the Jet' d'eau when Alex (who usually bugs me as I would imagine an annoying little brother would) had the idea to walk up the stony path that takes you out to the Jet. Well he didn't have to talk me into it to much as we headed towards it. It was dusk and the lake effect wind was picking up, making the Jet spray shift and wave as if it were dancing. Alex clomped right up to the massive shoot of water but as I approached it my heart jumped into my throat. The few times I convinced myself that the wind would shift a bit to much resulting in certain death and I turned and ran. The spray covered the remains of my ice cream and soaked me as well. With cone in hand I build my courage and squealed as I run next to it. My heart is beating so loud in my ears I hardly hear that my scream turned into a laugh and my furrowed brow was now smiling. Pumped with adrenaline and covered in my Jets version of a hug I can feel the city soak into my skin. The Geneva that I admired from afar has been absorbed by my pores. Some time during this adventure without realizing it I went from clenching to smiling. Regardless of how I'm feeling at any individual moment the tsunamis of emotion both good and bad gives me electric veins and I have never felt more alive.

the happiest sadness

At the midnight on Thursday I told a man dressed as a pirate it was my birthday, apparently it was my nautical friends as well. We cheers it with tequila, who know maybe he patroles the southern waters. Either way the Spring Brothers pub enabled yet another night of debauchery. A new face is added to our trio, Jake is a Georgia boy who headed north for Ohio State University. His 6'6" stature is softened by southern colloquials like "well who's gunna do that you and the frog in your pocket?" ...frog in your pocket, now I've heard a number of Dixie statements from my good friend Leah who's taught me oddities like mud boggin and mean muggin but this one is down right silly. Either way he meshed well into our tripod and by the end of the night we all clopped home arm in arm, him proclaiming that this was going to be a great semester, I agreed. I woke up early with that Christmas excitement of it being my birthday, and woke up the gang. Jake had left early for a weekend in Berlin and Alex was drained from the night before leaving Caitlin and I to head out for La rue est vous (the streets are yours) an annual street festival where everyone in the neighbourhood sets up shop. There are allot of clothes bags and shoes but also home cooked food stands, dj's playing techno, accordions and children kicking soccer balls. When combining my love for garage sales with street fairs you have the equation for a perfect day, an amazing birthday. I ate nutella cake that was phenomenal. "Now how many people can say they have eaten nutella cake on there birthday." Caitlin joked "No one I know" I respond with a smile and a sip of espresso. We play around with old women's glasses, sort through dusty jewelry and dig thought plies of clothing and I wonder when someone will pinch me and I'll wake up from this fantasy where no one speaks my language. Sometimes its nice to not understand anyone, you can imagine that there flowing words are discussing beautiful things, like art or philosophy. The chime of strange sounds makes the whole place seem magical. When I do hear American accents it sounds a bit startling to my ears, like when you take a sip of water and expect it to be Orange Juice and you brain needs a moment to register what has happened. With our new treasures of sunglasses and jewelery boxes we tram home to grab Alex and head out to dinner. we find a small cute place with white linen table cloths and a huge wine list. Our charming waiter is uneasy with his English and often closes his eyes to remember words. "ughhh how you say for this?" he eventually gives up and points to my napkin. We tell him and he repeats in a few times storing it to memory. On his recommendation and the place being out of duck I enjoy a beautiful steak smothered in mushroom, the best scalloped potatoes I have ever had, green beans and a glass of Swiss wine....Happy Birthday to me. We wander around Geneve in search of dessert. Now in the city of chocolate you would think we wouldn't be able to swing a cat without hitting one, but it was close to eleven and this city was singing itself to sleep. We stop at a late night pastry stand where the women/ baker hands me an apple turnover still warm from the oven. Now some how from getting on the tram to getting off at our stop a valve must have broke in the sky because our walk back to our home was a soaking wet one. Any attempts at covering your self were futile so laughing was my only option that and the occasional "you've got to be kidding me". Maybe its from living in Michigan but there is something about changing into dry clothes that will always remind me of home. Its that perfect mix of dryness and warmth. Now for a day and night nothing short of perfection parts of me ached to be around... my people. To find out what throughout present Carla had come up with, or to smile while Viki takes extra care to make sure the day goes perfectly. Today reminded me that birthdays are beautiful reminders of the people who love you. Even in the most charming of things in the most elegant of places are just things in places with out hugs from Jon or cupcakes from Belinda. Home sickness always rears its ugly head in the strangest of places, in Mali it was with a bunch of expats while eating tacos around a pool and I suppose here it was my birthday. I know that these three months will zoom by in what will seem like a whirl of memory's all to soon. I promise to remember my birthday in Switzerland as I have it here because the happiest sadness is missing those you love.

rookie moves (part 2)

Round two. This time I showered at an appropriate time and decided that today was the day that the action would happen. For some reason the term "general debate" had me imagining country's yelling across desks with accusations of the atrocities they allow on their citizens. (Rookie move) I learned quickly that general debate actually means the High Commissioner making a statement about important types of human rights problems and then 50 or so country's tell her that they wholly agree with everything she said. But seriously give me a freakin break, wheres the justice? where's the truth? I have sadly yet to see it. But when my ears perked up at the mention of my own country I heard them say something that few others did. " Laws without implementation are just words so we can sit around and keep talking of rights or we can make something of them." Although I can feel the Uncle Sam sentiments all over that statement it felt good that someone had finally after 40 sum country's called a spade... a spade. This is of course unless the people violating the rights are the US government I learned. The statements made about prisoner withholding, torture and Guantanamo didn't even get mentioned within their 3 minute statement although they were directly addressed by the President of the commission. Funny how that works. After an over priced lunch and a San Pellegrino we headed to a lecture being given by the smartest man I think I will ever hear speak. As we walked into yet another grand hall filled with semi-circle seating we were told it was an open event and we could sit where ever we pleased. Well, like kids in candy shop Caitlin and I ran to any country's seat in an attempt to feel really important and plopped down at Estate- Unis (USA) and Ethiopia extactic for the photo opportunity. We were still giggling from excitement when the actual Ethiopian delegates standing behind us, ask if we will be speaking on there behalf (joking thankfully). We both turn beet red and apologised repeatedly for our silly mistake. We joke for a minute about what we would say if asked anything I tell them "no comment no comment"we blush some more, slowly exit there seats, and gossip about it until the lecture starts. The lecturer is Jeffery Sacks, now I won't go into his background of extensive academe but trust me on this one, the man knows his shit. He talked about the climate crisis and as he spoke the knot in my stomach festered. There is nothing more terrifying than a Harvard Professor telling you literally that your world is going to end. A speech that had intended on motivating governments left me feeling helpless and tiny in a world full of garbage and smog. Way to end the day right. As always in this fiction novel of a life of mine it was raining when we exited the United Nations. Down the grand exit lined by the flags of the world I tried to imagine what it would be like if there was a way all the nations could function together ...peacefully. I could hear a soft spoken voice inside my head " Sleep on it Heidi, you've had enough for today." I agreed it probably was right.

waking up a New York lawyer (part 1)

I wonder sometimes how anything at all gets done at the United Nations. I'm sure two days is not an accurate representation of the amount of work is actually accomplished but from what I've seen the red tape is so thick I spend most of my day weeding through it and my nights trying to unstick myself from the bureaucracy. The day of the Human Rights Council periodic review I was so pumped to see the action that I could not sleep. I literally woke up at 2:30 in the morning and in my hazy sleep state convinced myself it was morning and proceeded to take a shower. It wasn't until mid conditioner did I realize that the twisted thoughts I was having were false. The clock was not on Michigan time like I had convinced myself, not even close to it. So I went back to bed and eventually did wake up and headed to the UN. My stomach started doing back flips when I got my security pass, the guard made terrorism jokes about my last name ( which I never really know how to react to) and the fluttering didn't stop until I found my seat in the NGO section of the room. A place I feel very much at home. The meeting was scheduled at ten but when eleven thirty rolled around we were all getting a bit fidgety. Word spread around our area that Honduras who a few months ago under went a military coup had both old and new government delegates there to represent them....drama. Somehow they both arrived and no one quite knew what to do with them or who legally would represent the country. The Gevneven section of the UN cant sneeze without consulting New York who as we all know is six hours behind and was not answering calls at 4 in the morning. I'm secretly glad I didn't have to be the polite Swiss waking up a New York lawyer at the time, oye. The meeting that we had planned to attend until two started at one. Deflated as a balloon Caitlin, my fellow intern and I walked back in our fancy outfits to our work incredibly disappointed. "Tomorrow will be better" Caitlin trys to cheer us both up with her ever present optimism and at the time I don't much believe her, but ..as it turns out she was right.

"NATO?"

Last night at a British style pub called the spring brothers, the fellow Spartans I went out with were arguing with a 17 year old while I was being dazzled by their slightly older friend from Sweden. Although he ranted mostly about flying UK jets and his excitement of being in the British Army, I paid more attention to his arm around me and the hand that kept nudging me closer. Pretending to care about G force was the least I could do. Freddy although didn't seem to mind my nationality was rather annoyed that his name appeared on a list that one day may go to Afghanistan, "why does me from some shit country have to risk my life for your war." After reminding him that it was not my war and that Sweden wasn't a shit country. "NATO?" I responded in a joking about a non-joking matter kind of way. I could hear the baby Aussie making himself feel better by making fun of my American friends. "Who's the President of Australia?," or "Whys your drinking age so high?" was the best he could summit up for insults. Breaking away from the powder blue eyes of my new friend, I asked why they were fighting with a child, a comment the rude one did not take much liking to. Our strange post-bar street conversation ended after the yougnin offended a touch to far. I think it was a whip at Obama that put my friends over the edge, but who knows really. As our group went one way and Freddy's another he grabs my hand, kissed me and wished me goodnight on the cobblestone narrow street of old town. It wasn't until this morning on my ride down to the Saturday market did I realize with contentment that I'd probably never see him again, I had a fun night. Now this market is some bizzar mix of street fair and fruit stands. With nutella filled Churro in hand I watched a gypsy dance alone to a Peruvian flute band while eating yogurt, and a girl play a drum set in a jail outfit equipped with hand cuffs, a noose and bunny ears. (seriously) Maybe my mind was to busy processing and absorbing to realize that a massive amount of warm nutella had relocated itself onto my beige cardigan. Classic move for me really. I used one of the many beautiful fountains and attempted to wash it off to no avail and figured my choco stain was my Q to head home. The tram zoomed me away.

that Versace could feed a family.

The pidgins here fly so close to your head that i duck every time it happens. No one else dodges them, only me and today in the park I saw one with only one foot. Strange. I sat amongst the view of the city with the mountains standing proud behind it and read documents that will be presented at the United Nations Human Rights Council Universal Periodic Review and I will attend Monday Morning. That's UN talk for huge meetings held to address individual nations problems in relation to human rights. Experts present findings, the governments deny them and the UN draws a line somewhere in the middle and makes demands. It's challenging to read about the world food crisis in a city that is chocolate scented, or about child solders while a group of eight year olds play a soccer behind you. Detachment sure comes easy. It seems strange in a city where I see window displays of shoes that cost more than my whole wardrobe, the largest number of NGO's hold office. It is actually kind of disgusting that a man in an overpriced suit at a board meeting decides what is best for the people a whole world a way, like he knows...like any of us know. We wonder why attempts at development have failed Wonder why there is food crisis at all or why some little boys laugh and play soccer whille others are forced to kill . I bet that Versace watch could feed a family. My lens is changed since going to Mali and am glad I went there first. One night it was pouring rain and a group of us dodged into a cab to escape it. We joked and tried to talk to the cab driver until we came to a red light. Just outside of my window, soaked to the bone was a boy holding his hand out. He was crying a hard steady cry that was visible through the downpour. I think i actually felt my heart hit the floor, and crumble right there in that taxi. We zoomed away in the vigorous Bamako traffic and he stayed there, hand still out, face still wet with a mix of tears and monsoon. The air of the cab completely changed it now was saturated with a mix of guilt, saddness and shame. Maybe this type of memory is what makes me bitter on my rides to work. How can life be so functional one place and so shattered in another? Although I feel myself indulging in this atmosphere the image of that boy is forever burned into my eyes. I will do my best to hold onto what I belive is truth by reading in the park next to a one legged pidgin.

then I can too.

"Lady's... we need a sexy title" E burst through the door saying at nine this morning. "All night I think of something that will wow everyone and I wake at tttthree in the morning and know this" ( yes she roles all her t's and r's). My excentric boss is talking about our latest project for human rights and responsiblity that she belives is in dire need or some curb appeal. When a women close to 60 is shaken awake by her own motivation it's clear that the passion and commitment will wow everyone far before any sexy title, but she'll never know that. Her grey Boufant hair, African jewlery and signature hot pink scarf will stay in place during her fast paced walk to change. She will accuse every religious person working within another organization as being a planted spy but remind you (and herself) that you must be tolerant of everyone. "M-O-R-M-A-N" she mouths to me this morning during a council meeting ... just in case I was wondering I suppose. Her hard feminism has distorted religion into a patriarchal game of supression and power that she wants nothing to do with. "Maybe buddahism, because there god is kindness, but still I dont know" she will ponder on one of her many, many spoutings. It refreshing, to periodically get breaks from research or report summary's to listen to the guiser of knowledge. How or why she ends up talking about the importance of covering yourself from the sand storms in Kuwait, or how the media feds us spoonfull's of garbage and we all gladly ask for second helpings I may never know. "the three s's is all people care about ...sex scandle and sport" shes now told me twice, each time with equal enthusiasm .I'll smile and agree and act like a sponge because I know enough to listen to this women, and listen well. I have someone now who really understands the heat within my chest that refuses to accept this world for its current ways. I can see it behind her eyes. But I also see the saddness, "ttthe women's movement does not have the strenght behind it anymore, and people are worn down pushing the same issues" she'll shake her head and whisper. Following always with the inspiration "and is why we need a sexy title to rrrejuvinate the women of the 21st century into action!" We both know that far greater strides need to be taken to shife the gears of movtivation but today this is the step that will make us that much closer. If I learned anything in Rome aside from always watch for tram rails it's that it was not built in a day. A few years ago I was at some random party, some equally random guy was talking to me about my carrer choices. " This world is going to crush you, darlin" was his snide comment. My responce to Mr. know's everything was that even if that may be... I will keep doing everything I can, even when I'm flattened. I knew this his pessimism had some truth behind it, that the obstical's to achive goal's are high especially in reguards to human rights but if E can wake up every morning and sometimes in the middle of the night with that amount of drive, then I can too. It's during the hardest times in life, when swimming up stream becomes the norm that reminders like E land in front of you like a floating feather. Reminding you that the way your headed is totally worth the stride.

espresso

Being trapped in an old nun's convent does have its bonuses. For someone with a head cold in the era of H1N1 I feel a connection with the Europeans century's ago infected with black death. The white walls of my room are becoming smaller and most of my interactions come from hearing what the birds have to say outside my window. Yet I understand the birds song's as well as anyone else who's speaking around me. Both have a rhythmic and charming tone about them, their languages flow with a delicacy that makes listening without understanding a pleasant treat. My small ventures to the quaint pharmacy and market are enchanting but even the short journey's leave me tired and wanting to return to the soft white bed I left only a half hour ago. My mind will always surpass my body under endurance tests, but part of that overexerted brain is thankfull that everything else sat down on the curb and gave that ego of mine the finger. I missed a tour and a boat ride...whatever. Those building will be there next weekend reminds my aching shoulders. What I did not miss was yet another meeting of unlikely characters, and surly that is the only sort that I attract. Drenched in fever I slowly bring myself to the community kitchen in desperate search of the first food I've eaten in hours. My exhausted hands fight with the key to the stubborn pantry, hearing my pitiful whines the man about my age holds out his hand in a gesture of help. He pushes his overgrown hair out of his face and I notice that it matches the color of his deep set and over sized eyes, espresso. His near translucent skin outlines his strange yet alluring features. Before I'm finished staring at what can only be some sort of french vampire, he yanks at the lock and the stupid thing finally opens, well sort of. He pulls the door clean off the hinges, now before this moment I used a combination of shy gestures and basic french to communicate, well in mild panic I forgot all about that. In shocked English i rant "oh my god, oh my god, oh no this is bad.. shit shit.. its not you fault..." he interrupts my freak out with french that could stop a volcano from erupting, and did. Now i couldn't repeat what he said of course but I understood the intention, "call the reception you spaz." I turn to do so and thank him because hey he did get the door open, he waves me off with his dark stare that I'm coming rather fond of. Tonight I return to the same kitchen feeling far less like a leper than the day before and sure enough Mr. porcelain is down there with what I assume is his mother father and little sister. He's joking with her about her pronunciation of french vocabulary and I'm thinking how that same work sheet could probably help me a lot. I make the snitzchel I bought earlier at the market and eat alone in the dinning room. A french dubbed version of desperate housewives has everyone in the room laughing, except me of course, to me its faces I know and words that I don't so I face my back to the television. They all slowly leave the dining room and I clean the mess from dinner. I walk back to my room and with each step my head pounds hard enough to make me squint, but as i reach the staircase I realize someone is standing there. Half a flight up the stairs sure enough dark eyes is there and as I climb closer he starts walking, as if he had always been. I want to think he was waiting for me. We turn down the same corridor, he reaches his door and fumbles with his keys. As I pass he turns his chin towards me and with the first smile I've seen come from his face quietly tells me, " bon soir", I say it back to him but I'm sure it lacks the elegance. I can't help but smile and look down as I walk into my white cave, my sterile jail cell but also my home that I have become rather close with.

we didn't start the fire.

In cold and rainy Geneva somehow I am more hot than in Rome. I woke up this morning at dawn before my alarm sounded and felt like the hotel's cat Ingram had scratched down my throat but there are times in life when you just need to keep going and surly this was one of them. I strung the carry on over my shoulder and wheeled the jam packed black roller over cobble stone. Rushing between moto's and smart cars the damn thing fell over at least four times. The last of which i actually smacked the homeless man who tyred to help me under conditions of me giving him euros in exchange. I actually smacked his hand. Arriving at the train station I cheers Roma with my final cappuccino that soothes me for only a moment. Then the lugging continues from here to there, then back , the again all the while my cough slams all my muscles into a pounding headache. i just have to mention that my body temperature right now must be through the roof, now I don't have a thermometer but I know a thing or two about constant chills while sweating,but i digress. Some how by means im not sure of still, Heidi is actually in the Alps. I suppose some kind of divine Cosmo's that make things particularly challenging for me said "hey lets see how she holds up in the rain". Oh and i don't mean a Sunday afternoon drizzle.... a drenching, all out attack of down pour making me resemble I assume a soggy, tired puppy. "keep going" perseverance tells me through stern clenched teeth. I leave the train from the airport behind me, the train that i arrived on by by pure chance and enter the shit ton (that really is the best word to describe it) of bus stops all headed in every which direction. I walk around what feels like a hopeless search, and then i see it, number 27, its pulling away and cuts a turn. I sprint, now with my record of injury's one would think running, in the rain with about 60 lbs of luggage would be by demise but some how i make it. Call it chance, fate or just luck but a bus is stuck in front of it blocking all intersections from moving . I knock on the door feverishly and give my best smile, a smiling soggy puppy and the bus driver grunting in french lets me on, my big break. "final leg" optimism chimes in my head. " You've made it this far". Dragging my luggage up the dirt road I can see through rain soaked eyes le cenacle, my home for the next three months. that quarter of a mile walk was a cheesy Sylvester Stalone movie where at the very end of x he collapses at y but finished with dignity or whatever. the soundtrack to Jurassic park chimes in as i carry my bag up the marble steps. Yet somehow completely soaked , sicker than when i started and beaten to the bone, i close my door behind me, dig out my ipod, and dance to billy Joel's we didn't start the fire, like it was going out of style. Well, dancing to billy Joel has totally gone out of style but that didn't matter much at all to me at that point. At the heathrow airport just over a week ago today, I was at this very same breaking point where you can cry or laugh, collapse or dance, give up or keep going. In London i cut a rug and laughed out loud alone in a bathroom, I actually did that. I've been told that I have a knack for making other people feel better, I never thought that the same silly crap I pull on others would work on myself, but hey it did and sure enough the rain eventually stopped

wasabi fears.

something about the pasta carbonara and the jumpy bus ride over cobble stone that made me nervous for what is ahead of me. "You always say you are nervous." Xavior bluntly tells me a few days ago. Since then, every time I say it in his presence he snickers and rolls his eyes in a french reminder to relax. He was right, I do say it quite a bit. Here I always thought of myself as the calm easy going type, like a cat in the summer, not a dog facing a vacuum. In honor of him I was use another adjective... ... ... I'm afraid. Now that was hard to admit. As Rome slowly closes part of me wants to believe the plane I am getting on tomorrow will take me back to the states, its that part that is afraid that three months is just...to ...long. My romantic idea's of travel usually keep these fears at bay. I think that bumpy ride home knocked them out of there normal hiding place and into the back of my throat. It screams for recognition and snicker's that I can't really be doing this, that I am just not strong enough. But that is only part of me, an intense part but a small one. It's like wasabi, a short burst of overwhelming heat that passes before it has a chance to really burn.
There's no stopping now, the roller coaster had started and it's far to late to get off the ride. What else can I really do but enjoy it? Even when your stomach jumps into your mouth and all you can do is scream for relief, soon like all things ,that feeling will pass and you'll be laughing while you whirl around another corner. I suppose it is always the unknown that is scary but Albert Einstein said that "the most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious", and i think he knew a thing or two. So maybe it's the length of Geneva, maybe its the new place, guess I'll figure that one out later, because even for only one more day I still have Rome, and I like that a lot. Roma means one who wanders, a gypsy, who knows maybe that's what brought me here to begin with. I think I've earned my Italian stiletto's, its time for those now...

a few of my favorite things.

It's been a marathon of sightseeing and my bruises, scrapes bug bites and blisters are the physical signs of my emotional wear. Tired as i may be my mind wont let me fall asleep until past midnight and the heat will wake me at 8:00am ...sharp. I can't help but feel unsettled with time passing, as if my worry towards it will somehow change its linear travels. I'm constantly towards between wanting it to slow down and wanting it to hurry past, rarely can I simply sit in it and respect its speed. It's those moment's though that I think I will cherish the greatest. The time when I think to myself " there is no where in the world I would rather be than right here, right now". The places this feeling invites himself to are never those I expect, but ones that I wont forget. The other day I woke from a nap and realized I only had 3 euro to spend on dinner, this number made the ache in my stomach a combination of hunger and nerves, needs and reality. As they battled internally I collected my purse and shoes in order to figure out my current situation. I walked around the block to a shop I remember advertising for cheap sandwiches. Freshly sliced on a hunk of crusty bread was salami, mozzarella, and artichoke creating a meal that was close to perfection. I sat on the curb in front of the small shop, in between vespa's and in full content ate my dinner with a tall cold peroni. The day was still holding onto it's light so i decided to a walk around the neighbourhood...my neighbourhood. But walking in Roma is never mundane. To stumble onto a fountain the size of a small house, or to fall into one of the many basiclli'a makes all walks adventures and every corner a discovery. Adventure is the word for today, I've decided. I'm heading to the Capuchin Crypt. A group of rooms beneath a church that is used it's bone's of its past priests as art throughout the six rooms. A strange, and dark side of me can't help but see it. If I needed another lure to the morbid cite (which I don't) the name of the monks is where the name of my favorite drink was created, Cappuccino. Apparently the prefect cappuccino matches the monk's brown robes. All this talk of espresso makes me excited for yet another perfect moment. I've made a habit of going to the same tiny espresso bar nearly every morning. "Ciao bella" the over weight and already sweating man will greet me. (I can't imagine ever getting use to being called beautiful at least five times a day.) The Ciao I reply with started from a tiny whisper and now accompanies a casual smile. "un caffè ?" I ask with yet another side smile, I 've learned that a genuine one translated in all languages. I set the euro on the counter and he points me to a table on the street,and soon follows with the tiny mug. "Grazie, grazie" If he only knew how much I truly want to thank him for this, yet the nonchalant attitude of all Italians flows over into a casual "prego" and its the best thing I've heard all day.

did you like whiskey the first time you tried it?

It's amazing how a night can turn. What started at dusk with reading and sparkling wine, ended with 27 (counted) misquitoe bites and a group of new yet unlikely friends. After dinner of Penne with prosciutto in a vodka sauce and red wine of course, I began to wind down my night in a tradition I've recently began. Sunset in Roma for me means time to head back to the hotel, relax, read, write, and red wine of course. This practice I have come rather accustom to was joined by a few of the new roommates I have acquired. First joined me was young blonde couple from Australia who although they are charming and personable their names I can not remember. Then billy, the newest of the group, he is a man from San Fransisco who's family was from Bermuda, yet his dark skin and white eyes revealed that before he had the chance to. We laughed and drank until our high spirits bubbled over into the other rooms and our conversation welcomed two new comer's. Luvan, a Frenchmen working in Geneva at the most unlikely of jobs as an eye lubricant manufacture (i know right?) and Paul a New Yorker (to the bone) joined our humble group making it an outright party. It was at this time, I'm sure, that all 27 mosquitoes were feasting on my wine sweetened blood, I just know it. Paul suggests we grab a some food, "I know the place voted top ten of all pizza places, we goin? we goin?" Why not? , so off we go, me now leaving the walls of my hotel to see the stars of Rome through eyes heavy with wine. I order the brushetta, my stomach still heavy with penne and my wallet constantly bearing on my shoulders , at 2 Euro it's the perfect meal. Billy, as excited about the stuffed zucchini flower as I am order's it to share. Luvan and I laugh over each others pronunciation of sauerkraut decideding it's a funny word regardless of language. He's impressed with my demonstration of crepe spinning, a talent I knew one day would come in handy. It isn't until the pragmatic, New York suggests we leave that we head over to a bar called The Yellow that's just around the block. We traipse our way there giggling at the McDonald's we pass and how American consumerism touches every inch of the planet. Luvan makes a joke referring to "No child left behind" and points at the fast food, everyone laughs but the Aussie's, who must wonder what they've missed. Seconds after we enter The Yellow Room, Billy hands me a drink that looks like swamp water and smells like homeopathic medicine. "Just try it, you might not like it at first, I mean did you like whiskey the first time you tried it?" his valid point brings the glass to my lips. This cup of disgusting, is a British drink that is supposed to resemble Jagermeister, but does not at all. I hold onto it to be polite until he heads for the bathroom. I quickly tell the bartender of this catastrophe and he swaps it for a whiskey and coke, which after that mess tastes like heaven. Our group has again multiplied as two charismatic British Marines have joined us at the table.They are on leave from the military and have two week's off before returning to Iraq. He speaks highly of American Soldier's, saying that they are dedicated and if they say they are going to do something you can expect it already done. "but there also, a bit fuckin crazy, honestly." A bold move in the face of three Americans yet his candidness is welcomed. "Most of them get excited to be in combat and if they are ever at our base we much more likely to get shot at" I am a touch to drunk to say anything substantial, so I say nothing at all, just nod and try to wrap my head around the situation. As we stand to head home the Brit in a voice only intended for me to hear asks what I'm doing after we leave. My better judgement speaks before my emotions and I tell him we are returning to the hotel but it was a pleasure to meet him. I smile and meander home with the people who started the night as strangers and ended as friends.

beauty and brutality

My passion is for people, their stories, their lives, and that character that makes none the same yet none truly different. The fingerprint, the snowflake, the individual to me is art in motion. I walked through the halls of St. Peter's Basilica, the mother church of all Catholicism, lined with statuary crafted so finely that marble looks like linen, and metal resembles the delicate curves of a women's soft figure. In sheer astonishment of the talent displayed before me my mind wanders with thoughts about who this person forever cast in stone truly is, what brought them here, just as my path has brought me to there feet. Or that Michelangelo, although highly regarded for his sculpting was so bogged down by insecurities believed the last judgement to be a blemish within the walls of the sistine chapel. I may never know what he felt but I can know, what moves those around me. What I do know is of the mother and her son who accompanied me throughout today's adventure. I know that Jo the 40 year old mother climbed nearly six hundred stairs to stand next to brad, her son, who will soon be finishing college to see from the top of the highest Basilica dome, the city and to see it together. " I had to drag him away before he left for good" she jokes while peering over at the man who was once her child. and brad, yet another snowflake is in search of the perfect something to bring home to the women he loves." I want to find something that truly stands out." he tells me covered in sweat from the roman sun. " Something beautiful?" I ask "yes" he explains, "something that's pretty enough for her" . I nod, for it is a feeling I understand, an emotion that is older than the Colosseum. I later pull myself from a sleep to hot that feels like a fever dream but yet is just another rest in Roma. I follow my noes to the cafe within the hotel for homemade lasagna with local spinach, sauce and mushrooms with a salad that was collected from the garden minutes after I ordered it. The two women working, one a mixed girl from Canada with eyes the color of green amber the other a petite roman with a pixie haircut and a shirt completely made of sequence debate over the southern region of Italy. "I will move to Holland or Denmark, but will never return to Sicily" the native Italian states firmly. " The corruption and the mafia makes it miserable". We talk about corruption, how it touches every inch of the earth. I tell them of my city and how the big three stole it's livelihood, and how I believe the grassroots of music and art will one day revive it. "bellezza e brutalità" .the three women from all stretches of the earth agree,that beauty and brutality is the world today. I may never truly know any of these people, but I know the insecurity of an artist, the love of a mother and the pain of corruption. Sitting in this lovely garden I am not alone, I am part of something grand. Together, we are all the snowfall.

the sun in rome will make you do crazy things

"hmm" says the concierge at last nights hotel. his confusion came from my book that I plopped down on the counter. the title Eat, Pray, Love confused him. " I thought to eat an to love were one in the same. Either way welcome to Italy" His sentence, drenched in Italian values had already welcomed me. To Italy... alone? a Roman women who during the flight adopted me as her own. As much as i had not realized before today, doing this trip alone, I believe will be what brings it most value. I sat in the St. Maria Cathedrol today for I don't know two hours, the smells and hmms comforted me, but the beauty of it brought me to tears. Now i know that I'm sensitive, and have cried over everything from commericals to stomach aches but never once have a cried because of a sight so beautiful tears were all that I could summit. I understand why hundreds of years people have come there to feel closer to divinity, and in every way I felt that as well. Religion to most people I know is about fighting, even if they don't realize it. It's either defending their beliefs, or denouncing others. This i believe to be the only true form of blasphemy. Call it God, Allah , Goddess, buddah, or shiva, is it not all really just love, compassion, and bliss? If the names are erased what is left?.. I fear this wine has started me on a rant, so lets end with something silly... a classic Heidi moment. With purse strung over shoulder I quickly darted from street to street in an attempt to not be as flat as the pizza i enjoyed for dinner. In my attempt to cross and not be hit by the metro, my lovely brown flat caught the track and I ever so graciously fell. yep, middle of the street for all of Rome to see in a skirt. Like any perpetually clumsy person does I jumped to my feet, fled for safety and laughed until i reached a tiny snack store to buy some water to clean myself off. After explaining my hardships to the young counter boy with eyes that melt like chocolate, he puts his leg on the counter showing me his scar and says "look same spot, we are twins, like family." I laugh and he tells me " this sun in rome will make you do crazy things"... and adds exclamation, or maybe an innuendo with a wink. I blush. It's going to be a good week.

and the winner is..

This London rain. It makes me very sleepy. It's the type of overcast that stretches itself from horizon to horizon. If we weren't driving on the left side of the road and I didn't have a bubbly Greek (I think) sitting next to me on the phone flowing with noises I could never make, I'd think I was in Michigan. That's why I like it hear. It's a lot like home but with noticeably more pale skin, greasy hair cigarettes and musicians. If you know me even a little then you know where that list sits with me. I'll fight the precipitation in order to stay awake, to breath it in, even if its only highway air. I'm sure the rain will prevail with a knockout punch, the bags under my eyes already in place as mock bruises. You win slow drizzle... you win

detroit says goodbye

The elevated tracks pier over this city...my city. Cold steel seamlessly fuses with the over growth of un-kept nature, she reclaims her territory. Graffiti is the backdrop to the ask tree painted white to stop it from slowly dying... to stop it from slowly dying.. how perfect. We pass Dearborn and Jennifer Granholm boards, no shit. Her over priced suit and mauve comfort pumps will paint her own white band, her plastic attempts at revival are a mockery that makes your stomach sour. She wont ride with us though, no. why would she? I hear that if you ignore a problem it goes away, if you ride in business class you dont have to look at who elected you, you don't have to bear the burden of a suffering city and her tired people.
Even though the streets are lined with crumbled sand castles, churches and countless liquor stores, my nostalgia and kinship for this city prevail. We clunk and grind past a crossroad as a stocky black man walks away from the tracks. With hair as tattered as his shirt he raises his fist and hold up a peace sign. Detroit says Good bye