I felt ill all day yesterday, and I think Phil felt the same. We force fed ourselves and watched as the time passed slowly during the last minutes I packed my two, strictly-enforced 10 and 15 kilo suitcases according to RyanAir, and drove to the Pisa airport. On the way, we "checked in" (not the airport check in, but the relationship kind), as we had done each day over the past few weeks, making we were communicating everything, given the distance that was soon to separate us.
What's a month, right? We kept saying that. Throughout the entire check-process, the time we spent on our macchiatos before I got into the massive security line, and right up to the time when we hugged, I was totally fine. I felt strong. Then, when I saw the way his eyes tugged at me to stay, to not leave, to get back in the Amore & Vita McDonalds van we drove and pretend it was all just one big nightmare that we'd even consider this month apart, I couldn't help but let a few heavy drops slide down my face. Why is it so hard even when you both know you love one another? Why should it be at all painful? Can physical proximity come remotely close to a strong, mutual intention to make it work in the long run??
Once I got through security, the hour and ten minute flight was a breeze. So was getting my luggage and purchasing a bus ticket to Barcelona, which was located directly outside of the exit. Everything was a blur, and was easy. The entire busride to Barcelona, I felt numb but content just listening to conversations in italian and in spanish that surrounded me in the plush, coach vehicle. By 11:30pm, we got to the bus station in central Barcelona and without a hitch, I got into a nice little taxi that took me to the Calle Asturies, within the Grácia district of Barcelona, and from there, I met Jennifer, the new flatmate, and her chunky little 2 year old son, Louie. He has very volumnous hair and bright blue eyes. His nanny, a Brazilian woman named something that sounded like 'Edesmana' - though I couldn't quite catch it when she spoke in brazilian-portuguese while hugging and kissing each of my cheeks - was delightful too. The apartment is small and stylish, but very functional, with high-speed internet and nifty little lamps in two corners of my small, comfortable bedroom.
After rummaging around on the web til 2 am, I hit the sack. At about 9 am, I awoke and got back online to see if anyone in the US would be on after a Saturday night out or something. It was the perfect way to start my Sunday. Phil and I texted back and forth as he sat in the villa kitchen eating our beloved yogurt/granola combo. I, on the other hand, had not eaten anything since lunch on Saturday, so as soon as I showered up and hit the road. I found the nearest cafe and stopped for a pastry and cappuccino, which I proceeded to order in italian, without thinking twice until after I had sat down. Miraculously, the looks they gave me from the cash didn't phase me at the time. I will avoid this cafe for as long as it takes for them to forget this- as they must think I am quite the blond (since I don't even speak italian like and Italian!).
And now, after 4 hours of walking around, I am back in my precious room, online, and once again, famished. Time to finish my chatting with Phil by giving him undivided attention as he fills me in about everything that I've missed in the past 24 hours...
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