Settling in for the Ride. Nice is Nice.

One boat, two trains, one tram, five flights of stairs, round about 9 hours. We've made it to our friends place is Nice, France. Having visited this city the first time six years ago, some things have changed, but it greets us with the familiarity of an old friend.
We're met at the train station by Caetano to lead us to his mothers home and at the gate of the building two more brothers join the gang. We enter and immediately the house comes to life as the four brothers pick up their instruments and the music swells. My mom and Madelena, our gracious host, exchange stories over glasses of wine and pots of cooking food, and I take it all in. A lovely welcome.


"What was it that had you so stressed?" Omar asks casually, kicked back on his elbows, watching the people go by. But I'm drawing a blank. Here, sprawled in the green grass, scarves off and jackets open to catch the radiant rays of sunshine, watching kids run and scream...families laugh...teenagers in circles with guitars playing music...I don't know how to answer.  In such a lovely setting any answer seems absurd...selfish... and what was it that had me so stressed anyway? I was stuck in a mindset of urgent necessity from years ago that refused to fade after the initiating problem had. I was working myself to death for something that no longer applied, but unable to remember who I was before. Depression and anxiety...these things do strange and powerful things to your brain and it seemed I was unable to escape.
Many heavy answers flit through my mind, but here on this lovely day, they don't seem right to voice. How do I explain? Eventually I dismiss them and simply respond, "I don't know..." and he laughs disbelieving, and I examine the truth of my statement, because here in the light, sprawled in the grass, the darkness I seemed to be drowning in as recently as last week seems to be already a fading memory. The monsters disintegrating beneath inspection. And I know nothing is fixed so quickly, but I'm not waking up overwhelmed, dreading my days, and that's a start. Thank god. Sometimes to break a cycle we just have to step away.

Even on the other side of the world, it's nice to sit in parks and teach friends how to crochet 

We lay in adjacent beds, arms outstretched toward each other, slowly waking up.
"I'm ready to be home," my mom tells me. "I miss my comforts and my armchair...my own bed.."
I chuckle and tell her she's not allowed to talk like that for fear she'll rub off on me. "I've only just started my journey, I can't be missing home already."
"You don't have a home anymore. You're homeless with nothing to go back to, what will you miss? You live out of your backpack. Welcome to freedom."
Welcome to freedom.
It's true.
I feel sad for a moment perhaps...an orphan, wandering the  world aimless. But with no home the world is open. I'm untethered. What more could I ask for? What a lovely home I've found.

Mom got on a train this morning. Back to Rome and eventually home. She climbs from her bed to mine early in the morning and holds me for a moment. "I can't believe this is the last time I'll snuggle you for I don't know how long," she mumbles as I start to wake up. There's nothing to say, I just hold tighter. Eventually we rise. She slams coffee. Double and triple checks she's not forgetting things. Says thank you's and goodbye's to our friends. And finally is ready to go. I carry her bag down the five flights of stairs, out into the street and wait for her Uber.  Once we've stopped moving, it seems to become real when she looks at me. I see the change in her face, visibly falling, and I reach out to pull her in. "It's gonna be okay." The tremble in her shoulders gives away the doubt.
Words of advice...words of parting...
"Be safe. Do yoga. Eat well. Have fun. You suck."
She touches my face, tears on hers, and there is nothing to say but "I love you. Don't worry." I watch and wave until the cab is gone, and that's it. It's real. My last link to the states and to my family. Obviously with Facebook now it's not so dramatic, but a message is not the same as a hug, and while I can keep people updated, I'm on my own in the moment.
Except I'm not really, am I? Friends seem to be around every corner. New or known. That's one of those beauties of adventure.

On a reminiscent whim I reach out to a friend. A Frenchman living in Mexico. "Hope you're doing well! I'm in France, just wanted to say hello!"
The response is instant, "Maia! Where are you? I've returned to France, I live in Strasbourg. Come!"
To the Google I go. Strasbourg. I find it to the north of Nice, east of Paris, on the border of Germany. The pictures are precious. It reminds me of some childhood book I'm sure I read and I can't see any reason I shouldn't spend my next few days in this storybook town.
"Lovely! Does Thursday work for you? I'm booking a flight."
And it's that easy.

The sun finally makes its debut in the early afternoon as I glide down the seaside road toward the Nice airport. A group of white clad tourists stand out in striking contrast with the shimmering blue sea behind them as they pose for a picture. A young man with a grubby backpack strums a ukulele as he strolls along. An old man kicks steadily, propelling himself down the street on a scooter. Friends chat, hands waving and lips grinning as jackets begin to be stripped off now that the sun has arrived. Life on the promenade seems always to be lively, and I love it.
Watching the sea go by, I have a feeling I'll be back soon. It won't be six years this time before I find myself returned to Nice. There is a charm here I find myself drawn to, and while I don't love cities these days, a return to Nice would be an acceptable adventure in my book. Au revoir for now.