"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>isn’t that Nice

>yesterday i saw pigeons showering in a little fountain of water that rose out of the cobblestones like a sleeping cane. the sunset in the distance gave no indication of the hours, because that moment was timeless.

i sat on the ponte situated on Fondame De La Caz, and ate my spicy and creamy falafel, when the owner of Trattoria Pizzeria da Ivano, the place where we lapped up gooey streams of spaghetti and pizza the day before, noticed my sunglasses and hummus-face.

“you friends, dey gone?”

“all gone,” i said with a smile between bites.

“come,” he said with a devilish smile. “you sit here on my table, i give you free wine.”

his waif waitress brough me a jug of white wine that i normally cannot stomach (cheap drunk, and all that), but i promised myself to drink it for him. even if i horked on the shit, i was going to swallow it for him.

i brought my knees up to my chest, and slowly downed 3 glases of wine while polizia on boats with shades checked me out with dirty eyes and inviting smiles. the owner periodically stopped by to give me a kiss or call me bellissima.

it was a nice dusk.

i came back to the hostel and spent the night running from one dorm to another with boys from australia and new zealand, giggling under the influence about anything that popped out of our mouths, from the uncertainty of hostels, taking pictures of roman asses, or how to “relax” before bed.

i was still giggling when i hit the pillow at 1am. hostelling is the best way to have such a laugh with random strangers . . . especially when your feet have been solitary hit n’ runs.

tonight, i’ll do bumfuck nothing until 11pm when my train leaves for Nice. i’ll arrive in the morning to sunny coasts and bronzed souls.

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