I’ve bought postcards in every city I’ve been to thus far. Cheap, lightweight and perfect for my concise composition of my visit on the back. I can sticky tack it next to my bed and be reminded of the wonderful memories made. I always buy more than one, as to have one for myself and always one to mail out.
I was saddened by the fact I couldn’t not but postcards this weekend in Cervia and Ferrara- as my wallet was literally empty of cash and credit cards. Yet, it is Sunday afternoon and I sit in my bed, my wall of postcards next to me, above my head on the bottom bunk I look up to the bottom of Chelsea’s top bed and see all the ticket’s of the trains been on. I don’t have the tickets for Cervia and Ferrara either.
I am not sad. I filled my pockets with even more beautiful souvenirs and I filled my mind with irreplaceable memories. A postcard can burn. A train ticket could get lost. But my memories are stronger than fire and smarter than misplacement.
Last night I found myself washing shells in the bathroom sink with laundry detergent and soap and a hand towel. - At least it wasn’t three weeks of laundry. But these shells, on the Adriatic Sea shore, shone in colors of navy seals- like seal skin wet and alive. They shone like sunflowers rained on by an orange cloud. They shone like a little kids marble bag spilled out an a grey street. They shone. Yet, in my room they stunk. I had several mini conch shells, al of which I took because they were no conch slugs living in them- or so I thought.
As I was washing them I realized one shell smelled in particular. This tiny shell stunk extraordinarily terrible! And Chelsea complained of the smell with reason- there was a dying slug in our room! I had kept them in a cup on my shelf. I felt terrible picking out the dying slug with my only bobby pin- and then getting a headache from the smell I put the conch slug in the trash can, wrapped up the bag and threw it away in the lobby- and then after Chelsea told me this was a bad idea as it would stink up the entire lobby I darted the trash bag into a trash can outside. I soaked the shells in soap and water, dried them and then generously sprayed them with Dolce and Gabana perfume. Although they do not smell of the Adriatic Sea any longer, they still belong to the Adriatic sea- and prettier than any tacky Cervian postcard.
Cervia is a true hidden tesoro, especially in the wintertime. Arriving to the train station was a foreshadowing of our entire day. It was quite, not like any other train station I had been to. You could literally hear the birds chirp. Beka, Jordan, Chelsea and I roamed around, following the areas to the beach. We passed beautiful beach houses. The shops all seemed vacant. The beach was empty- it was beautiful. We illegally passed through a closed hotel, walked over the low cement wall and placed our shoes on the sand, crossed over the dune and walked to the sea-shelled shore of the Adriatic Sea. I breathed in this cleanse air, I felt clean. I smiled. I was bundled up in a snow jacket smiling underneath the sun on the Cervian beach.
I went shelling. I wrote things in the sand with my stick- that carried the whole day and then left at the train station. We walked the beach. I picked up more shells and crabs. I put them in my pocket. I did cartwheels.
The sea reminded me of the Gulf Coast- it was not the color of my turquoise Venetian earrings. It was like staring into a forest, a forest of water. Like a swimming pool that someone forgot to clean. It was beautiful. The wave caps were white. No one was swimming.
All of us were feeling hungry and decided to scope out whatever was open- nothing. Finally we entered a gelateria where I asked the gelato man in Italian- not an American Ice Cream man- he was wearing a nice shirt and tie and owned this shop and not just a truck. “Dove e mangier vision equip?” The gelato man picked up his phone made a phone call and next thing you know the chef form the restaurant next door opens up his restaurant for us four Donnas, sits us at a table, pours us Champagne on the house and tells us he is bringing some local Cervian white wine. We treated like Cervian Queens. I enjoyed my platter of Adriatic cold seafood- but gave the mussels to Chelsea who was elegantly slurping her oysters. Right next to my left cheek was a window showing me the Adriatic Sea. On my tongue was the grape juice of Cervian grapes. In my stomach swam the Adriatic Sea creatures- I had some in my pocket too. My lips tasted the salt- the Cervian salt of which makes Cervia famous- served in exquisite New York restaurants and sprinkled on the Pope’s food, seasoning his suppers.
The gelato man gave us some gelato for dessert and we continued our sweetly royal afternoon with a sweet in our hand to explore the rest of this hidden treasure Cervia. We walked around and entered local sea and lotion shops and then once again proceeded to end the day at the beach. Chelsea and I cart wheeled our way to the seashore and I took of my shoes and let the Adriatic Sea numb my toes. My toes turned more purple than my lips- but I left my toes in the water letting them turn different shades of violet- until I stepped on a shell and jumped back.
Cervia isn’t even in my “Eyewitness Italy” travel book. I didn’t even know Cervia existed until last night when I found out Rebeka and Jordan were coming and I decided to go...I loved exploring Cervia without “Having to see” anything in particular. My feet walked wherever and I saw what I saw and I loved what I saw. Sure, I did carry my eyewitness Italy book in my bag, but I didn’t take it out. My eyes were being the witness today.
We Americans do say, “I love” too much. I loved, ooops, I mean I liked learning the words Mili taught us to use for “I love you” as “I wish you well” instead of ti amo as it literally means I wish you well, something deeper than I love you because you are wishing the person to be well, no matter how they feel back- a true part of love. Loving and wishing well when it is hard to do so. That is a true part of love, really wanting someone to be well. To be their best.
The train station of Cervia was awfully quite, but it wasn’t awful. The station looked chiuso but it was aperto. The ticket machine didn’t want our money- so I “took some coffee” macchiato while Bekah and Jordan took some coca-cola; we listened to the birds sing. We then hopped on the train to Ravenna ticket less. Once in Ravenna we purchased our tickets and hopped on the train leaving in 20 minutes… nope, 20 minutes later the train caboose man came in to tell us that the train doesn’t leave for another 2 and a half hours! So hopped off we did to sit at the McDonalds and coffee bar. That could only mean 2 things:
1. We not going to make it to dinner in the mensa tonight- no need to spring back-
2. And two, Cappuccino time! With only about 2 euros in my possession I think I’ve managed well.
The caffeine got to me, story of my life… but this time it didn’t lead me looking for a bathroom as it usually does- although I’ll say I don’t mind discovering all the different and unique kinds of flushers and toilets in this country. This time it lead me to discover about 100 feet of Ravenna- the benches on the Ravenna bus stops were mosiaced! (Ravenna is renowned for its early Christian mosaics. Mosaics span the years of the Roman and Byzantine rule offering comparisons between classically inspired designs and later Byzantine motifs. – I couldn’t say I saw all that history as I meandered around- but I can say those benches were remarkable!
Everyone, or atleast a lot of people who go to Ravenna must pass by and see those benches- yet perhaps most people don’t enter the monuments to see the “Baptism of Jesus” and “Martyr of Christ” mosaics. Maybe one day soon I’ll go to Ravenna and enter, but for now for a train wait- it was quite the beauty.
I cried in Todd’s travel class last night- I cried after watching the video if immigrants trying, suffering, finally making it to a freed land. Their rafts sank, they froze, and they trembled on this “free” land. They risked their lives to get here- and here they are trembling. What had they just endured- physically, mentally? Where do they go from here?
It made me feel like a boy- a boy from Bangladesh I just met last week. A boy I asked to speak Bangla with a friend so that I could hear the strangeness of this language. He can’t show me his memories or pictures or really anything of his place, of Bangladesh. But I can listen to his language, listen to this boy speak. He talked to his mom this way, his father= probably yelled this language when playing sports with his friends. This is the language in his head- one he speaks silently in his head. He no speaks Italian out loud. Now he speaks five languages. I had asked him to speak for me, share what was in his mind. How selfish of me. I don’t know the pain he has endured any why he left the land of where this language is spoken. But he is here now. And he is smiling. I hope he always does, but I don’t blame him if he always doesn’t.
I cried for this boy. How selfish of me to cry for him. He endured the pain but I cried.
No. Yes.
Again, my family endured a similar pain- having to flee Cuba. They didn’t come on a raft but they still shivered when they got here. - What had they just endured? Where to go from here? Plenty in Cub. Nothing here. Or is everything here?
Again I cried, how selfish of me- they endured the pain- and I cried for them.
Am I being selfish or am I being real? I think I am being human- I can’t go back on put on my grandmother’s Cuban housedress and fly into America. I was born in America- so I can only cry for them. Should I cry for them? Maybe not. I should live my freedom for them. But sometimes I can’t help to cry for them. I don’t need to cry for them but I cant help but feel worthlessly fortunate. Fortunate without doing anything of worth to be this fortunate. I grew up from baby, to adolescence to now an adult- always blessed, always fortunate. And it is because of these blessing I can do what I do, and do what I do.
Like go to Cervia for the day, numbing my feet in the Adriatic Sea. I could still feel the sand on my feet, rubbing my skin and my socks.
Cervia isn’t Florence and it isn’t Venice. When I get back home I can tell people of place that isn’t their travel books. I don’t have a Cervia postcard- but I have Cervian memories. What a blessing.
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