We'll Always Have Paris

At the Rome campsite we all sat down and talked late into the night despite the mosquitos that were biting our limbs.  We discussed topics heavier than travel itineraries, but now I can’t remember what we said.  The next day Ryan, Laura, and several others were leaving.  Hands were shaken and bodies were hugged.  Promises were made to visit should we ever find ourselves in a friend’s neck of the woods. 

I tried not to be sentimental, but there was a stretch of silence when I searched for a unique, conclusive statement worth remembering.  I always wanted to deliver a line that stuck in somebody’s mind, like:  “We’ll always have Paris.”  But I couldn’t think of anything cool like that, so I told my friends I was glad to have met them, which is what everyone says.  Maybe I should’ve written something down beforehand.  A speech was excessive, but surely there was something I could’ve said that truly expressed the meaning of our brief encounters. 

After my friends left, the social atmosphere changed.  I mostly talked to Aaron, but there certain topics we didn’t discuss at that point.  Our conversations sometimes sounded like product reviews.  I needed variation, but I could no longer flock to my other comrades who saw the world differently.  Ryan and I could talk about sports, women, and the frustrations of life.  Laura and I have similar personalities, so we didn’t necessarily have to talk about anything.  Her company was peaceful. 

On the Italian island of Capri, Aaron and I hiked up this steep hill that overlooked the bending shore.  We weaved our way through narrow pathways that zigzagged up the mountain.  The streets were lined with walls so that all the houses seemed fortified.  

Giant lemons grew in backyards where trees stood in clumps.  There seemed to be no logic to the geography.  We walked into dead-ends and soon found ourselves confronted by a layer of foliage.  Beyond the bushes was a cliff that dropped off to the sea.  Stairways with steps three feet long intersected a winding road.  Once we reached the summit, slightly out of breath, Aaron asked me, “Do you think Laura would’ve climbed up this hill with us?”

I considered the possibilities, but I wasn’t absolutely certain what Laura would’ve done.  Many of the group members thought we were crazy for wanting to walk that far and exert ourselves so much.  Aaron was a tireless machine, seemingly bent on convincing others of his superior endurance.  I admired his competitive spirit because I possessed one, too, although I tried to bury mine underneath humility. 

Since my days running cross country, I always wanted to go farther and run faster.  I liked being the crazy guy running far away from home that people honked their horns at in greeting.  I imagined them talking to their family later at dinner, saying things like:  You’ll never guess who I saw in the next town over.  I understood Aaron’s emissions of pride when he reported to others how far we hiked.  Our minds may have been wired differently, but at least we could keep up with each other.

We worked our way back through the labyrinth of narrow alleys and sprinted down the hill lest we miss our boat.  The majority of the Contiki group boarded the dinghy and we sailed around the island of Capri.  After the storm clouds blew away, the captain parked us on the blue and inviting water.  The brave, crazy, or drunk ones shed their clothes and jumped into the drink.  I was wearing my glasses, and I can’t see very well without them, so I stayed on the boat and watched my friends shriek and shiver in the shockingly cold water. 

Later that night, I was walking back to the bus with Roisin, a young Scottish woman who was initially shy but has since opened up a great deal.  Her closest friends on the tour left, and their absence saddened her.

“The strangest thing is that we didn’t know each other very well,” Roisin said.  “But we all felt like we could’ve been great friends.”

I tried to console her by telling her that even though we all have only known each other for two weeks, our bonds are strong because we all share such a memorable experience.

“When I was in Ghana for one month, I stayed with a girl from Canada,” I began, “Now I consider her one of my best friends even though we haven’t seen each other in a while.  But if we were to meet up tomorrow, I know we’d hit it off like no time passed at all.”

Despite saying goodbye to friends, there were several reasons to be joyous.  An obvious reason was that we were on vacation in Italy.  But we also added new people to our group. 

In Sorrento, the group dined at this restaurant that featured a stunning backdrop of Mount Vesuvius.  Even more surprising than the view were the reasonable prices.  Aaron and I chose a table closest to the volcano, which was really quite far away.  Dan, a newcomer, pulled up a chair. 

The most noticeable feature of Dan is his Salvador Dali mustache, a waxed work of art twirled upwards at the ends as though his facial hair were smiling.  He’s an extremely cheerful fellow who always has a witty remark parked behind his bristly lips.  He claims that his hilarious mustache is a joke he intends to take as far as he can before it impedes on his daily life.  His quirky spirit is contagious, and I found my mood greatly elevated in his company.

The massive meal of bread, salad, pasta, and pizza was filling and unexpectedly delicious.  It has been my experience that as the view becomes more spectacular the food’s taste wanes.  In these types of restaurants, you pay more to please the eyes and not so much the palate.  We all discussed the benefits of traveling alone while the sun sank in the sky and Mount Vesuvius began to blend into the surrounding darkness. 

Despite our words, I was convinced at that moment I preferred the company of my new friends over the company of my solitary thoughts.  I would always have my thoughts, but my friends would go back to the places they came from and I would return home, richer for having known them.