The Work We Do

Giugno 30, 2008
Days in Italy: 10
Known Bug-bites: 37
Total Gelato Sessions: 7
Collective Fanta Consumed (mL): 3990

"Hey, you wanna get up now?"

My body has gotten used to the stimuli here, so it's gone back to neglecting my alarm, which has now gone back to ringing so long it drives those around me to frustration. Jon-o wakes me up almost every morning these days.

As for the other mornings, Dan obliges the duty.

On the brighter side of things, my mouth still very much enjoys what has become the standard breakfast spread of bread, jams, and my beloved juice. I like to keep myself entertained by pioneering sweet new combinations. Among these, the Nutella & arancia (orange) jam is my proudest achievement. Good lookin out, Sami.

Just as I'm about to take a bite into tangible genius, I feel a little tingle in my nose. I'm really quite amazed at how God has worked out the body and mind. The tingle is hardly different from plain vanilla runny noses, yet for some reason I know it's strawberry. I just know.

Class becomes particularly exciting today as our teacher walks in with a locked wooden box. I turn to my gaze to my classmates to find the same bright-eyed suspense. There's some befuddlement and unintelligible whispering, but we're sure there can be only one treasure in that chest. He opens it, and sure enough, there they are...

The masks! He's finally letting us use the masks!

While much of my writing is devoted to acclaiming the orange-flavored beverages here, this is actually the real reason I came to Italy. We've been studying Commedia dell'Arte, an improvisational Italian comedy style that uses fantastic masks and stresses speaking physically. It's an old art that's fathered other comedy styles, including slapstick.

Abbot & Costello.


Laurel & Hardy.


Lucy & Ethel.


Will & Carlton.

It's basically physical hyperbole.

Learning Commedia is a process that can't be rushed. Our one class - four days a week - runs from 9:00-12:30pm, breaking for lunch and then resuming from 2:00-6:00pm. The work to restructure our bodies to such exaggerated and specific fundamentals has been monotonous, meticulous, and nothing short of intensive, leaving me significantly more tired than normal. Which, as you should know, says a lot.

But I'm pleased to find that this moment is very much worth the anticipation. All the work before - the endless exercises, the tedious deconstruction and restructuring of our physicality all the way down to our center of gravity - makes the art that much more respectable, authoritative, and significant. And fun.

Once more abstinence proves to be a wise choice.

Walk, walk, walk, walk in the Light.

Giugno 26, 2008
Days in Italy: 6
Known Bug-bites: 12
Total Gelato Sessions: 4
Collective Fanta Chugged (mL): 2490
Picturebook: Weekend Excursions

So Aaryn, Jono, and I find ourselves sitting in the first-class booth, which is just second class with a plastic partition. The rest of the seating is full, and we don't want to move into another car lest we miss Dory's signal when we arrive at our station. Aaryn in her fearless diplomacy greets the sharply-dressed Italian man sitting next to her. I enjoy how much the people in Italy live up to our schema. I mean he pretty much looks the way you imagine a stereotypical Italian guy to look: the slicked hair, the tight pants and all -- maybe that's why Aaryn's being so friendly with him. Nonetheless she very much enjoys his reciprocation of kindness; how, with his minimal English, he nobly proceeds to talk her and answer her questions. They discuss life in Italy, his hometown of Florence, Italian soccer players, and somewhere in the conversation she casually throws in that she's from Arezzo.

Immediately his face changes...or rather, his mouth, since his designer sunglasses cover most everything else. His newspaper becomes an enthralling, tour de force piece of literature, and his English is reduced to "eh...I don't know." None of Aaryn's banter is of any effect anymore. The chuckles that once humored her curious inquiries devolve into vague exhalations that make it seem like he's not into this anymore. Two minutes pass and he gets up, grabs his stuff, and disappears from our car after wishing us a good time in Cortona. Harmless enough, except that the train isn't stopping, and he said earlier that he was heading into Cortona too. Jono looks at her and says "Why did you tell him you from Arezzo? Floretines hates Aretini!"

That little rivalry I mentioned in a past post? This is it. Florence and Arezzo. Random guy and Aaryn.

The streets of Cortona prove to be a worthy consolation to Aaryn's little Romeo and Juliet alternate ending. It's a tourist town, thanks to Diane Lane, filled with gifts shops, gelaterias every few feet, it's own an street accordion player, and an uphill incline that thoroughly puts San Fran to shame. Dory takes us up...up...so far up the quaint scenery of faded antiquarianism and clothesline laundry fail to penetrate the burning desire to just tap out with an ice-cold Fanta.That, of course, is no option -- I mentioned how I'm 1/3 of the male population right? We reach the top, the gorgeous top, and it's so worth it.

An Etruscan wall built 5 centuries before Christ was even born.
nuff said.

We carefully walk down, slant-bodied, and break for lunch in the Piazza made famous by "Under the Tuscan Sun." Jana, Cayenne and I stop by the bank, where we encounter a rich , Italian-American, vagabonding woman who, after a quick glance, exposes our Orange County residence by what she calls "the California glow." She's even able to distinguish Cayenne as not being a possessor of such, a conclusion Cayenne later rambles on about in resentment.

Lunch at Fufluns finally scratches the pizza itch. Finally. It'd be more accurate to say I've been having an Italian food eczema since I came to Italy, and their house special pizza is quite the relief. But of course, eczema means there's always room for more scratching. Second wind: Snoopy's gelato. #1 gelateria in my book so far.

We head up to the monastery of St. Francis, a sight well-coupled by Dory's "Here Comes The Sun" ringtone unexpectedly going off.

The place is utterly serene. The surrounding space is nothing but endless trees drooping into the valley. It's pretty amazing. I mean, we're all agitatedly walking this endless road, we turn a corner and the next thing you know we're all alone. When the air is clean of any noise pollution, thoughts just become so loud. As if by righteous conviction, everyone around me finds themselves sitting, staring, pondering, journaling, basically the whole gamut of pensive expression.

This seems to be more difficult for me. While most everyone else is easily discovering marvel after marvel, my wonderment seems to only rest on how different and old this place is. It's a weird feeling, which sadly doesn't attribute itself to spirituality or a communion with God. I'm a bit long-faced by the fact that revelation is refusing to crash itself into me right now. In fact, it wasn't until I looked to the scattered awestruck travelers around me that I even really acknowledged God's presence here. I think I'm so used to finding and establishing the presence of God in everyday, hidden corners of life that being able to just sit and bask in His more apparent majesty has become too much for me to digest. I'm surprised to notice not many thoughts run through my head, except for wondering what would compel a person to become a monk in the first place, to deny himself of social normalcy and almost everything else.

No answer comes to mind.

Lord, grant me peace of mind.
Help me to be more in tune with Your presence,
And open to your revelations.
Guide me in worship as I learn to humble myself before your creation.
Grow me in the knowledge of You, that I might be filled with praise at the sound of Your name.
Be Lord of my life.

The walk up our front steps is partnered with grunts of relief. During a much overdue shower I do another bite count. The hike has been exceptionally irritating to my feet, and so camouflaged bites have now come to visibility, revealing a whoppingly different recount. I look at my legs feeling like I could audition for the movie adaptation of Seuss' "If I Ran The Zoo."

Known Bug-bites: 27

Uh oh. One went blister.

Wine Tasting in Italy?

Giugno 25, 2008
America: 3:23 AM
Italy: 12:23 PM
Known Bug-bites: 9
Picturebook: Week 1

I had to evaluate the situation before giving my automated response.

Yes, I don't drink because of my religion. I think many people adulterate the idea of religious abstinence with connotations of blind faith or an aversion to having fun. My reasons stem from the Bible talking about the importance of a sober mind - not being drunk as a way of walking in wisdom - and a obedience to law.

Christ says "If you love me, you'll keep my commands." It's a pretty easy concept.

I'm 22 now, so it's way legal (assuming there's a spectrum of legality) for me to drink. But is that alone sufficient motivation for what's at stake?

God's been cool enough to put the want for alcohol pretty low on my biggest temptations list, so it's easy for me to ignore it. On an ordinary day, and even at most parties, it just isn't something that crosses my mind. That, of course, is nothing short of God's grace to me, because I know for a lot of people it's not the same way.

I have, though, always been fascinated with wine culture, how so many people make such a big deal about this stuff, and all this talk about wine's ability to make food taste even better.

That's an incentive.

On the other hand, there's the risk of losing sobriety, and in that way sinning. Any ability for alcohol's inebriating qualities to loosen up or enhance bonding is really no concern of mine. There's no real need for that in my mind. Ten points if you caught the pun.

That's not an incentive.

I have the utmost gratitude to anyone who sees me as any kind of role model, because that's the kind of "good pressure" that spurs me on to try to be more like Christ, that inspires me to meet their expectations. Shout-out to whoever came up with that inspiration cycle concept Mikesong is spreading, because it's pretty true to life. Like I said I'm 22 now, and more than the fact that it's legal for me, I think I'm finally in a place where I can make decisions about alcohol that still keep a good testimony to God, and my friends and family.

So, yeah, I'll taste some wine. This will be my first time having alcohol since my mom slipped her 2 year old son a bit of margarita to get him to shut up.

Plus, having wine in Tuscany is one heck of a debut.


(Pardon the rotation)

Why does wine taste spicy.

Making My Impression

Giugno 24, 2008
Days in Italy: 4
Known Bug-bites: 8


"You are the sleepiest person I've ever met in my life."
- Jesse, my Academic Coordinator

A Real Juicy Topic

Giugno 23, 2008
America: 12:29 AM
Italy: 9:29 AM
Days in Italy: 2
Known Bug-bites: 6

I wake up confused. My alarm hasn't gone off yet, and it tells me 2:28 AM. I have no clue what that means at the moment, but I notice my roommate just heading out, and my other one still asleep.

So that, I think, means, that it's 5:30 PM here. Wait. No. That can't be. Take the...3.....hours...um. Jono's clock says 8:28AM, so I have an hour. But he just left. That can't be right. I figure I'll just assume the worst and get up.

Breakfast is great.
Cereal.
Milk, unrefrigerated (that's how they do it here so I assume it's safe).
Yogurt.
Soft cheese.
Butter that looks like soft cheese.
Jams of all sorts.
Bread.
Generic Nutella.
Juice.

I realize you can't really go wrong with breakfast. I mean, jam...bread...juice and you're set. Pretty much juice and bread...bagel...baguette...pan de sal...whatevs. Just gimme my juice.

America: 5:12 AM
Italia: 2:12 PM

#1 Blessing of the Day: found a fan.

The day is off to a slow start. Dory takes us on a facilities tour, showing us room after empty room, sharing stories and whatnot. That's nice Dory, but I'm pretty sure we don't need to stand around this long to understand that it's a room.

Very sorry for that...the heat...it likes to inhibit my patience.

This Italy place is consistently giving me flashes of my time in the Philippines. The heat, the clotheslines (no dryer), the cracked walls, the smell of dirt and gasoline perfumed by sewage; heck, even the kitchen staff is Filipino. I managed to muster up the courage to have some Tagalog conversation. I have yet to muster up the courage to use our cultural-connect to get the hook up on juice. Man, juice is so good.

We head to town and, after stopping to get a Fanta, Scott, the founding director, drops some knowledge about the history of the place. He passionately explains the local intercity rivalry, and just how to insult our rival city in Italian. For a native American (not a Native American), he sure has assimilated himself to Italian grudgery. We visit the birth-house of Petrarch, who according to Scott is responsible for starting the Renaissance. Pretty big stuff.

Another look at my phone explains earlier confusion; it must have been slowly adjusting to the area, because now the time had become accurate to Italy. Sure, I often lament this new guy can't measure up to my old phone, but Sir Mirrorton Durrable sure wouldn't have been able to do this.

After the unexpected Art History sesh, he lets us loose and I finally get to do what I came to town for...fooood! Food is such a funny word, isn't it? It kinda sounds like boob, or maybe onomatopoeia for one of those t-shirt cannons you see at basketball games. Think about it. Wait the cannon would be more of a "foom." It would be "food" perhaps if the t-shirt ended up stuck in the cannon or something. But I digress...

Among the eatery hotspots are cheese and pasta shops, abundant gelato chains, including Il Gelato, what Dory hails as the best gelato place she's ever been to. She often speaks in superlatives, so I don't know how credible her praise is -- but hey, I'm down for acclaimed ice cream, disputed or not.

About one hour marks the total duration of the tour, including Dory's mini-tour of her favorite nooks and locales. We finally get to the market. I've been longing for some juice of my own. Juice that I could refrigerate (unorthodox to Italians); juice that I could write my name on with Sharpie and be sure nobody would take it; juice that I could drink from the carton, as much as I want, without feeling like a jerk.

After excitedly filling my basket with the necessary quenchery, including lotion (I brought the wrong kind with me...calamine), I go to the cashier, only to find that my American Express card gets a shake of the head, thumbs down, and the phrase, "Visa-eh, MasterCardo, solo."

The walk back is long, inclined, and juiceless. My only consolation is dinner, and a minimal but necessary 20-minute nap before the mandatory concert.

America: 1:30AM
Italy: 10:30 PM

I wake up to Dan asking me if he should turn the lights back off. He walks out the room.

I feel rested. This is not good.

My phone affirms this, showing me I've slept through the concert we were supposed to watch. Being 1/3 of the male population here doesn't grant me much anonymity, so Dory is sure to have noticed. I think I'll just stay up here for the rest of the night.

America: 4:34 PM
Italia: 1:34 AM

It's late, and having Jennifer Chung's "White Lies" on repeat hasn't done much to keep me from tiredness. I must stop here for now. Plus the lights in my room are off, so bugs are swarming to my screen.

Besides, they have all night to find my pasty, light-reflective skin anyway.

"and by juice, you mean orange Fanta." - Dana

De Terminal pt. 3.

Giungo 22, 2008
Airporti di Roma
Roma, Italia
Italy: 10:58 AM
America: 7:58 PM
Days in Italy: 2
Hours in the Airport: 17
Picturebook: All-nighter in the Aiport

I go to meet Dory and the arrived down by baggage claim. I'm thrilled to find 5 classmates-to-be already at our meeting point. I take a seat, exchange awkward looks all around. Turns out drama majors are not immune to first meet silences. I guess I had gotten so caught up in the excitement of having people to talk to that I forgot that, for them, they just got off the plane and are exhausted. Nonetheless I feel obligated to entertain these new guests, and guide them around what has been my home for the past 18 hours.

"Would you rather eat poo-flavored brownies or brownie-flavored poo?" I ask, quickly utilizing SPOP tactics.

"Brownie-flavored poo," Dan quickly obliges.

I smile at his unfazed cooperation. This is not hard at all. Following his response comes Alex with a discussion on the nutritional value of poo, as well as Dan's sparked curiosity as to what poo would actually taste like.

I imagine it's not a far cry from the smell.

These guys quickly warm up to the gesture and after a few more rounds of "Would you rather?" the proverbial ball has gained generous momentum. New faces are Katie, Alex, Dan, Cayenne, Dana, and my roomies/only boys Dan, and..I believe it's..."John-O." Familiar Irvinians are Donna, Emily, Jana, Megan, Chelsea, and the hilariously OC Aaryn Costello, dramatically collapsed on her humungous top-of-the-line luggage.

America: 9:00 AM
Italy: 6:00 PM

Many hours pass, others join our band, and the bus finally arrives at 6:00PM, successfully christening my time in the Rome Airport as a full 24 hours, and then some.



Man, that was so much fun.

De Terminal pt 2.

Giungo 22, 2008
Aeroporti di Roma
Roma, Italia
Italy: 3:28 AM
America: 6:28 PM
Days in Italy: 2
Hours in the Airport: 9.5

The people seem so much more easygoing here. Perhaps it's the indoor pigeons, but I don't think they're supposed to be here. I've been hanging out here in the airport all night, observing, taking spontaneous naps, brushing my teeth in the public bathroom, etc. I've been doing a lot of odd things. I remain the only one in the airport who goes to the bathroom carrying all his luggage, and most of the population here has witnessed me setting the camera timer to capture me trying to look candid.

The airport, for the most part, closed at about 24:00. Most people found places to sleep, whether in rows of chairs turned into beds/forts, on the floor of the food court, or the ledges near the bathrooms, people here are just finding anyplace to crash. As for myself, full of energy and boredom, I embark on another quest for an outlet (get it?), this time with all the stores and food court being closed. I find, in the center of the front lobby, hooked into an animal conservation exhibit a powersurge with my name on it (If you don't know, my middle name is De los Santos. Which is Spanish for "on"). So as people walk by they find an oddly dressed Asian boy squatting next to a lobby exhibit siphoning electricity and watching dance competition videos. Employees just stare, then keep walking; no harm being done here. In America, I realize now how much security unnecessarily prohibits things simply because it's uncouth.

I don't have a way of contacting anyone at the moment. Earlier I purchased a phone card from the cashier at the food court. I noticed they sold them, so I just pointed to it, and from his response all I gathered was the price. I walked up to a pay phone with corresponding pictures, but the reader wouldn't take my card. Alternatives were an equal bust, as the internet kiosk I put 3 euros into didn't even have working keys! On top of that, I watched an old man jack my bed of chairs right as I was returning.

I find another seat next to someone, and, after purchasing an orange Fanta, pull out a half-eaten last piece of the aforementioned pizza margherita. At this hour, it tastes like buttered gold; I make it last, savoring it by taking it in small bites and filling the remaining space in my mouth with the much-better-than-America's orange Fanta (different formula, this one actually has more orange juice than sugar)

Italy: 5:50 AM
America: 8:50 PM

I tried contacting people again. The internet kiosks are pretty impossible. I found another one, put in one euro to check it out, and it worked fine; working keys and it's responsive. Except in those 5 allotted minutes I realized that I, while I could type in g-chat messages, I couldn't actually send them! After minutes of contemplation, I put in 2 euros and attempt to, in those 10 minutes, contact Wes to perhaps get Jana's itinerary so I can find out when she arrives so I can catch her as she comes out of baggage claim. It's my only clear hope at this point. Wes isn't on g-chat, and I find the same sending problem when I try to contact Miguel on Facebook chat. I almost finish writing Wes a private message when...the kiosk ends my session 5 minutes prematurely. What???

"No, this cannot be the way the story of Julian Leong ends."

God will get me through this. He didn't take me this far to die in an airport! A little dramatic, I know, but it makes for a better story. Since I can't contact Jana, I figure I'll play it safe and just wait outside baggage claim. So now I'm here waiting by baggage claim, planning to look out for her during any of her possible arrival times.

Dang, these chairs are so comfortable now.

Italy: 6:30AM
America: 9:30 PM

Okay, this "watched pot" business can't be a good idea. I bet my nerves are going to go in shock from being so constantly alert...plus I don't think I'm breathing a whole lot. I give up on waiting for Jana and wonder if there's an information booth that can help me use the phone...I mean I'm sure some of them work, I just don't get it. A brisk stroll through the building and I find nothing but ticket relations, none of which have any interest in helping me out.

Oh Aeroporti, you conditional friend, you seasonal companion, you wish-wash! Once upon a time that little ticket granted me access to people, to places, to importance, to purpose. Now my worth to you has expired along with that blasted piece of paper. What once dictated my every move has now become nothing but a place to discard my ridiculously long-lasting Stride gum -- yeah, it's true what they say.

Alright, I just gotta figure this out. I face my fears and take on the phone a second time. I idiotically stuff my card into the reader again and again in equally futile attempts. I can't read anything written in the booth.

You should know, rest of the world, that us pompous Americans never bother learning your language so you might as well accommodate to us.

The pay phone refused to accept this truth, as it remained Italian.

But what's this? An icon of a card...the middle of three, that features a detached corner, possibly reflecting the perforation my card has in the very same corner! I snap it off, and try the card to again.

Victory! It works, and then something else...the part of my brain that remembers that in my Italy packet is a complete contact list fires up. Things just fall into place after that. I get in contact with Dory, who says she's scheduled to arrive at 9:30AM.

"I'll be wearing a red blazer at--"
"-- outside baggage claim?"
"Why yes, if you just go left to the f--"
"Food court? You mean the red one named 'Pizza & Vini?'"
"Well...yeah."
"I'll be there."

I know this place like the back of my hand...or should I say back of my head, since this place has gotten to know that part a lot better. God has really equipped me these past years. There was no doubt in my mind I would get through this, and that I would have a story worth telling. Also, I've been praying for the inspiration to write again...and man, did He deliver.

This reminded me that God doesn't hand us character; instead He gives us opportunities to build it.

Mission Tom Hanks Impression: Accomplished.

De Terminal pt 1.

June 21, 2008
Aeroporti di Roma
Rome, Italy
Italy: 5:47 PM
America: 9:47 AM
Days in Italy: 1

I arrive safely, and first thing's first: internet it. It's been 18 hours since I left LA so I'm due for a Faceb-- I mean, e-mail check. After searching the Aeroporti di Roma a good twenty minutes, I'm thrilled to find an outlet inconspicuously nestled in a corner of the far upper food court. While I can charge my buddy, he to my melancholy can't find me any working internet.

I swiftly move on to the next task on my list: Eat!
Ordering was fun, which was basically question marks, eyebrow furrows, and lots of pointing. I get the pizza combo, which they call "Menu Pizza." It's funny, with the combo they only offer you Coke, water, or beer. I point to the orange Fanta fountain, but she insists the only soda you can get is "ko-ka ko-la." Afterwards she turns me to another stand and a lady hands me this tiny cup of coffee, which I partner with a handful of undecipherable drinkdemints.

I enjoy my pizza margherita, but despite my best efforts to avoid the sun, he keeps following me to my seat. Not to mention all the different packets I got for my dessert coffee ended up just being sugar. I decide I'll unplug my charging partner in crime, get some gelato and go somewhere cool to dive into my Italy book...which...I can't....find...in my bag. Uh oh.

"And so it begins..." Patrick's voice echoes from past epiphanous instances like this.

After grabbing a medium pistacchio, I retrace my steps and circle around to where I had exited. I can re-enter, it's just that I have to go through inspection again. As I struggle to handle my things I begin to think the gelato maybe wasn't a good idea. It's delicious, by the way, the cone they give you is a like a really large cake cone, but it tastes like a sugar cone.

Embarrassed but still hopeful I prepare to ask nearby employees of the Aeroporti di Roma by searching that phrase in my other book, which thankfully I haven't lost yet:

"Oh pehr..so eel mio...leebro...
Oh perso eel mio...libro...
Ho perso il mio libro..."

But once I get their attention I lose all I just recited, instead just saying "uh perso" again and again while opening the corresponding page and pointing. They just look around and shake their heads.

No dice...meaning no book. Within hours of my Italy arrival I achieve my first lost item of the trip. God is still good; He's always good. I'm thankful it was only a book (by the way guys, thanks for the gift) and not something bigger...like...like...uh oh...WHERE'S MY LUGGAGE?!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not that surprised by absent mind. I pace quickly to the return entrance and see my bag sitting in the corner.

"Uh...mi-- mio..."
"Oh tuo?" the man replies.
The lady working the x-ray charades licking an ice cream cone.
They both chuckle, and I join them, sheepishly looking to the floor.

And so here I am. I think I just fell aslee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeem . Yup, I did it again. Okay I'm done for now...

The Calm Before...

June 20, 2008
The Leong Residence
Walnut, CA
America: 6:50 AM
Italy: 3:50 PM
Days in Italy: 0

"Alright, I'm gonna go."

JR removes his phone from its charger. I thank him as he leaves. I'm not surprised he stuck with me the whole night; he knows I'd do the same for him.

I really didn't mean to start packing so late. If it wasn't for moving out of the apartment duties I would've...okay yeah, who am I kidding...anyway the point is that I'm done. Finally. I manage to sneak in a power-nap before my parents announce it's time to go. We leave to do some work at the factory before heading over to LAX.

Okay, so not "we," per say. I knock out in the car and the next thing I know I'm waking up to my parents complaining about that piercing, yet apparently ineffective, Barbie-phone alarm of mine. We step into Washington Mutual to exchange my money into traveler's cheques. Despite having explained to her that I already did the same thing last week, my mom proceeds in asking the teller a barrage of commonsensical questions like "can we use these checks in different countries?"

"Yes, mom. You might even consider them checks for travelers." I let out a discreet chuckle at her paranoia. I really wouldn't want it any other way.

Later we eat at a Chinese restaurant in Alhambra. The tea mediocre; the water: tap with an interesting bite; and the spicy shrimp wet with oil. Still, the tofu is seasoned well, and conversation riveting. I had revealed to my mom the hilarity that is the "Beautiful Nail" comedy bit last night, and now she's hopelessly trying to recall lines...

Anjelah Johnson:
"Oh honey, that's why you do not have boyfriend. Long nail better. I do for you, no problem. Only $4 more."

Mom:
"Oh you don't have girlfriend how come? You want long or short hair--"

That's about as far as she gets before all sound is muted by an abrupt, odd feeling in my tummy. It doesn't really hurt, but it feels like it's a precursor to something else. I calmly make my way to the bathroom, very carefully, without explaining, and once I see the toilet...yup...I was right.

Now this wasn't one of those upchucks where your abs tighten and it kind of just pours out of you. This one felt like I was a tube of Colgate Total in its last life cycle, some unknown force mercilessly squeezing out the last of my innards. I hadn't eaten that much yet, so despite my mouth feeling like it was going into labor, the returns were sparse and still distinguishable. Two successful heave sessions and I feel much better. My dad comes into the bathroom to ask if I'm okay. I just turn to him, eyes red and teary, and pitifully utter "I threw up."

"Oh okay" he answers shortly, "just have some tea."

I kind of felt foolish after that. You know how sometimes when a kid falls down and cries, the parents will just pick him up and say "you're okay," and then the kid realizes it wasn't all that big a deal. Haha...yeah. I really needed that little reminder to grow up. When my parents left me later that day, and I continued to my gate, I felt a sudden strength.

I realized I've never been on my own like this.

"Alright, I'm gonna go."