i wake up early, and find myself at a rest stop in italy.
it is terribly windy and cold– i emerge from our van in tiny pajama shorts to wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom.
i spot keyan at a distance in the greyish-blue extended corridor, fresh light illuminating him. his face is fully soaked from taking a sink shower– he is heading to grab a towel before “hypothermia sets in.” we convene and decide to get breakfast at the little shop.
keyan and i realize we don’t speak a lick of italian, so i try to order in spanish. they understand.
an impressive amount of cured meat cascades above me, enveloping the entire store. this excites me, so i reach to photograph them, but am immediately scolded by the women working there. NO PICTURES they say.
even at this remote stop, the food and coffee are fresh (i discover italians do cured meat well). my croissant smells strongly of nutmeg and has a “whole wheat” vibe to it. apparently it’s vegan.
keyan orders a bresaola sandwich, and raves that it is the “best cured meat he has ever had.”
we are blissfully enjoying ourselves when i reach for my phone and notice a frustrated text from yasig in the whatsapp groupchat. he is pissed that we “take too long” at rest stops, so we scurry back (but face no real repercussions).
the rest of our crew is enjoying their selections: lauren, also the vegan croissant (this is how i discovered she is vegan); dillon and brendan, morning pizza(???)
later in the day we park at a campsite just outside of milan, which is where bands will often stay in europe, if in a sleeper van of course.
being here gives me the urge to freeze and die in a ditch like mona in vagabond.
being in europe at a campsite and hearing the rocks crunch underneath my feet gives me the sensation that i am exploring the world but in reality i’m just listening to the rocks crunch beneath my feet.
i get this subtle urge to be cuddled in a cottage with dated tech, painted peeling dusty brick walls, a kettle for brewing tea, cracked tile countertops, and to watch a film with subtitles.
after faffing about the site, we make our way into town. we take pictures of signage outside people’s homes because they “look based,” which inevitably summons an angry man who shoos us off from behind a fence. NO PICTURES.
we eventually transition from suburb to a more central part of town.
a man begins speaking to dillon in italian.
“i don’t speak italian.”
“what are you?”
“i am american,”
to which the italian man chants, “HAMBURGUESA! HAMBURGUESA! HAMBURGUESA!” and scampers off. incredible.
we sit on a nearby bench in a green intermittent park area of sorts, and dillon almost begins smoking a hand-rolled cigarette in front of a baby (he doesn’t). we walk to another restaurant that is also closed. we give up. at the entrance to the campsite, we bump into brendan and lauren retrieving their dinners from a service called deliveroo, which is essentially european doordash. it took them an hour to order and figure it out because of the language barrier.
i do not desire to spend my time with many people currently, but i appreciate who i find myself with, and i appreciate people’s kindness.