I tried to keep a travel journal, I really did. Maybe I gave up. Maybe words just couldn’t describe the cerulean blue of the water in Nice or the stench—yes, the stench—of Florence when I walked out from our hotel to smells well outside the realm of food, perfume, or history. So much happened, good and bad and awkward and hilarious. Lies and lying out. Bullshit and baguettes. (You get the idea.) But overall, sans the result of putting 31 girls together for near-25 days, my trip to Europe was indeed, in its way, indescribable. Or, that’s what I tell myself when I make up excuses for why I didn’t write in my journal. I will, in the next post or soon after, mention the few lines I scribbled on bits of paper and in the first few pages of the notebook I brought with me. I warn you, though: they are just ramblings. I didn’t keep track of my trip the way I had planned.
For now, I will try to sum up my trip without boring you. I will do this by gesticulating wildly (because gesticulating sounds dirty, and so this catches your attention) and then writing a poem. Because, ladies and gents and the French, this is what I do.
Let’s start with Ireland, Wales, and England.
Then Holland, France, Switzerland.
Then Italy, back to France, then Spain.
Three posts sounds good.
Like a clover.
Or the amount of fingers left down when you’re flipping off a person in London.
An on-the-spot poem about the exciting future posts:
If you write it,
they will come.
I’m not sure.