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

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.