This Race Thing: Italy

NOTE: I write quite a bit in my journals and what not and some of it I post to my blog and some of it doesn’t make it (too raunchy, too sad, mom vetoed it, wouldn’t be able to run for public office, etc). I placed this one in the “too sensitive, possibly on some Bill Cosby stuff” category and was prepared to keep it for myself, but changed my mind because... well… I gotta get it off my chest! So let’s chat.

An American physician I met on the ferry from Croatia to Italy suggested that I read “Three Cups of Tea.” “Is that the book about the guy who builds the schools in Afghanistan,” I asked. “Yes,” he exclaimed, excited that I had some reference to build upon. He began telling me more about the book and suggested that the most important thing he grasped from the story was the need to educate girls. He went on to explain that when you teach a girl something you essentially teach a community. An educated female will spread her knowledge by teaching her offspring, her friends, and younger siblings and they, in turn, will teach theirs. I had heard of this concept before and mentioned that this educational model had been applied both positively and negatively throughout our history. “What do you mean,” he asked. “Well, look at the Willie Lynch for example. His methodology was used to educate an entire race,” I replied. I was met with a blank face, so I gave him some background about Willie Lynch, the southern slave owner, who essentially wrote the “how-to” book on creating slaves out of men.

Rome...

There are many, many facets of old Willie’s theory, but one of  his “breaking” philosophy is that if you take the strongest male slave and beat, maim, and/or kill him in front of all of your female slaves, then the female slaves will teach their children, both male and female, to fear the master and they, in turn, will teach their children. Willie believed that this type of psychological terror would have long lasting effects; essentially creating a slave mentally for many generations to come and teaching an entire race to fear.

 

Fontana di Trevi

After a deep breath, the physician said, “Let me ask you something… Do you think that we [Americans] will ever really get passed this race thing?”

“Someday,” I responded with an awkward laugh.

As we caught a train and made our way to Rome, we switched topics and easily continued our banter.

An hour into our train ride, a screaming match broke out at the end of the cart. The conductor had found a passenger, without a ticket, hiding in the restroom and the situation was clearly getting out of hand. Although this was an express train with no scheduled stops, it stopped at the next station and the police boarded.  The passenger, a middle aged, male, African immigrant, was not going without a fight and began shouting and pushing the police. While the melee progressed, I looked around at the other passenger’s faces and instead of looking alarmed, they looked bored and inconvenienced. Irritated whispering and demands for the police to hurry continued around me and then the lady behind me said, “tipico.” At that very moment, I understood her comment and being the only other dark skin person on the train, I became very uneasy; guilt by association.



Reminds me of my car back home.

Whether it’s living with the Roma population, the Muslim community, or African immigrants, Italy, like many countries in Europe, is struggling with issues arising from immigration and nationalism. So, while traveling through Europe, I had become accustomed to people first assuming that I was from Africa. Sadly, I had also gotten use to the occasional shifting of purses, the guarding of children, and the exasperated sighs when I was seated in their section. What I hadn’t become accustomed to was the reactions from those same people after they heard me speak or noticed my passport. “Oh! Americana! What part are you from,” they’d begin and hands that once clutched bags are now reaching out in handshakes and pats on the back. Not being able to switch that quickly, I find myself stuck somewhere between pissed and relieved.

Colosseum

This is one of the pitfalls of traveling with black skin and an American passport; it’s a double edged sword. A part of you wants to embrace your cultural roots by standing firm alongside all black skinned individuals. Yet, another part of you understands that the term “African American” doesn’t apply to you when you are overseas; Obama is African American, you are simply a Black American. Even now, it’s difficult to express how torn I felt on that train. Part of me wanted to turn to that lady and haughtily say, “That isn’t typical! We are both black and I don’t steal train fare!” Yet, another part of me knew that nationality and color aren’t the same things in these parts and as soon as I opened my mouth, my “American accent” would quickly disassociate me from that man at the end of the train. So I sat quietly, hoping that I was setting an example of how “we” act by having the most intellectual conversation I could muster with that doctor. Funny, but that line in Martin Niemöller’s speech: “And then they came for me,” kept running through my head the entire time.

Beautiful Churches Abound!

The man was eventually taken off of the train by force and we continued onto Rome, where I was blown away.

Rome is essentially a living museum. Aside from the big tourist attractions like the Colosseum, Pantheon, Forum, and the Vatican, there are countless basilicas, piazzas, and churches to visit. I nearly cried after entering San Pietro in Vincoli, which is breathtaking, and I would have slept on the cold concrete in front of Fontana di Trevi just to keep looking at it. Out of all of the countries I’ve been to and all of the sites I’ve seen, hands down, Rome is the most impressive thus far. I won’t even mention the food… My God!  If it wasn’t considered impolite, I would have picked up the plate on a few occasions and spit shined it. MAGNIFICIENT! And the Gelato! No words… I ate Gelato every single day I was there. Everyday!

At nights after I wound down and had a minute to process my day, I still couldn’t help thinking about that man on the train. I realized that I was still a bit angry, but this time for a different reason. I wanted to kick myself for thinking that my skin color was reason enough to associate myself with that man and that I needed to “counter act” his actions. I've probably been doing this on some level my entire life. On a rare ocassion i'll watch the news and the newscaster will say something horrible happened. "Two men beat an old lady and stole her purse. We wil have the full story after this break." I will sit there through the entire break thinking, "please don't be black people, please don't black..." As if their wrongs, if they are black, are a reflection on me. We may have the same skin color, but we are not the same!

I understand that many people see blacks as one big conscious thought; what the black man does uptown, surely affects how another black man is being perceived downtown. However, when we see ourselves as one monolithic person, instead of individuals, and began changing our actions to coincide, it can limit our personal choices. “’We” don’t do that’, ‘We’ don’t eat that,’ ‘We don’t wear that,’ and ‘we’ don’t go there” are all funny statements when the comedian uses them for kicks; not so funny when “we” use them as a crutch. When “we” solely allow our skin color to determine how we will vote, what music we will listen to, what religion or church we will attend, and where we will travel, then we are truly missing the point of being free.

Colosseum

If there are any throw back, cultural lessons I want to unlearn it’s this: color associations. I want to learn to disassociate. Not disassociate from other black folks like I’m not one, but disassociate from a mind-set that declares that because of my skin color, I must carry the sins and shortcomings of my brother on my back like a burden or allow my sking to determine my behavior. I also want to disassociate from a mind-set that assigns characteristics to skin color (e.g. All white people do that, all black people do that). In one of the very first posts I wrote, "Grey Matter", I said that I identified with my race first, my gender second, and my nationality third. If this trip has pushed me to do anything, it has pushed me to just identify as Davita, first and foremost.


So, will we ever really get over this race thing? I don’t know, but I’m going to try.

I got next!

I wish the Romans had invented elevators! BUNS OF STEEL!

Souvenirs = Junk!

The Vittorio Emanuele Memorial on the Piazza Venezia

The Forum

Independence Day in front of the Tomb of the unknown Soldier



Moses with horns @ Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli

Dreamers vs. Realists: India

Not right, not wrong; just different.

My place is down this alley! Yes, he is zipping his pants.



I flew into New Delhi from Hong Kong really late in the evening, but had already arranged for the guesthouse’s driver to pick me up due to the hour and so I waited. He arrived very late and looked severely disappointed once he saw me. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was a young woman and not a man, if it was because I was an American, or if it was because, like him, I was dark skinned. Whatever the case, he walked twenty paces ahead of me as I nearly ran to keep up with him and off we went in his beat up little car whose engine took three minutes to turn over.



We made it to the guesthouse, which was located in Paharganj, a backpacker’s district that looks worse than anything I’ve ever seen in the States. In shock that I was actually staying there, I stumbled out of the car certain that this wasn’t the right place and that I was about to be robbed. Maybe I was moving too slow for the driver’s comfort, because he reached back, grabbed my bags and while asking me for a tip (which isn’t customary in India, but tourists typically don’t know that), he proceeded without me down an alley that smelled like curry, cigarettes, and really strong urine due to the open urinal at its entrance.  Not wanting to be left on the street by myself and without my bags, I followed. As we made our way through the back alley towards my home for the next few days, the driver stepped forward like a soccer player and kicked a sleeping dog that was in our path.

Welcome to India…

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NOTE: After I left India, I read reviews of Paharganj and many writers suggested that first time visitors to India should not stay there, but spend a little extra money and stay in Connaught Place. I could not agree more with this statement. The locals actually refer to Paharganj as the backpacker’s ghetto. It is physically shocking to see and can turn you off of India; especially if you come from a developed country. The experience is similar to coming to the United States for the first time and being dropped off in Marcy Projects in New York. You may get used to it, but It will take a while.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Maybe too simple?

Typically when I arrive in a new country at night, things tend to look worse than they actually are, so I try to keep a positive attitude, wait until the morning and not let it get me down.  I explained this theory to an older couple during breakfast at the guesthouse the next morning. “Well Dear,” said the wife in a grandmotherly tone, “I’m afraid that India will look just as bad, if not worse, in the daylight.” Great! I spent the entire day in my room! I didn’t even go eat lunch or dinner. I emailed my husband telling him that I had made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve been traveling for almost four months through ten countries and I have never seen anything like this in a major city!  I can’t believe this.

The Red Fort in New Delhi

To admit this revelation to my husband was actually a humbling experience. Before I left New York, I had been nagging him about a book I read called Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure by Sarah Macdonald. It’s about the life and experience of the author who moved to India to live with her ex-pat boyfriend. The novel is funny, but there’s a part in the book where an older, Indian, gentlemen Sarah is talking to says that the problem with Americans is that we are always looking at the person above us (financially, educationally, etc.) and we look at them saying, “I wish I had that! I wish I was that!” So, we are never happy because we are always seeking and working harder to obtain more. This gentleman told Sarah that in his culture, they look at the person below them and they say “Thank God I’m not in that position! Thank you God for everything I have.” Therefore, they are always happy and thankful for what they have and are ultimately content in life.

At least one wife is always going to be sick of your crap!

Now, I realize that his viewpoint isn’t reflective of ALL Indian’s views, but I spent days arguing with Chad about the nobility of simply being happy with what you have; never stressing to have or to reach for more. This is the right way to move through life! His response: “Nah babe, I just don’t see it. Where’s the motivation to improve?” Writing him off as confused, I let the argument die; but, now that I was actually in India looking at contentment in the face… I wasn’t quite sure of my position. Was this right or was this wrong?

The Taj Mahal - a love story! "Chad, will you build something like this in my memory?"

Dancing to the song in his head! Love it!!

After a highly stressful prayer session, I eventually made it out of the guesthouse. I visited Ghandi’s home and memorial museum. I walked around the Red Fort and saw a lot of what New Delhi has to offer. I even managed to make it all the way to Agra, where I saw the Taj Mahal in all of its grandeur.  Agra is just as challenging as Pararganj with its plethora of rickshaw drivers speeding down the streets, dodging camels, dogs, and cows, and always attempting to up sale you on a tour or rip you off. Despite the surroundings outside of the Taj, I found myself walking around the Taj at peace and people watching for hours. Happy, smiling, families eagerly enjoying one another while running shoe less across the grounds of one of India’s gems. Maybe, this is right?



I stretched a bit further and made it to Goa in the southern part of India. There I spent my days walking the streets with bulls, monkeys, goats and stray dogs and I learned to make the best chicken curry I’ve ever tasted from the owner of a local restaurant. Thanks Guarav!

Ahhh.... Goa.....

I also had a very unique experience at an Ayurvedic Spa Resort in Goa. While there I spent three days butt naked getting massaged, bathed, scrubbed, and beaten for three hours a day by two men. I actually paid for this! Even though I left looking like Don King when they dripped two gallons of oil on my head during the Dhara (Shiro Dhara) and even though I felt like that soldier in Platoon that was beaten with a bar of soap wedged into a tube sock when they pounded me with a round bolus of herbs wrapped in a cotton cloth during the Kizhi, I still loved every minute. The only awkward moment was the post shower everyday… “Uh… thanks, but I can wash my own pocket book.”

I'm feeling the shirt, man! Can I get a smile?.

During my trip, I realized that in order to enjoy India, I had to throw away the rose colored glasses that being an American affords one and see this country for what it is and not what I thought it should be.

Then Let me explain…

My first day walking around the Main Bazaar in New Delhi, I met two young ladies who were selling beautiful, vintage Indian quilts. I bought a few and ended up talking to the youngest girl who asked why I had come to India. “This was my dream!” I told her. She replied that going to New York has always been her dream as well. “However, it is not possible for my dream to ever happen,” she continued very nonchalant as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.  To give up on your dreams with such ease at the age of seventeen is wrong! I was hurt and outraged for her and her statement proved just one more reason why India was starting to become a “horrible country” in my mind.

What is this animal?!

From the kicked dog, to being spat at by a beggar after being denying her money, to slipping in cow crap and having it end up under my toe nails, there were a thousand different situations similar to this that could have continued to build my case against India. “Everything is wrong with this place!” Yet, after that conversation with the girl in the market, I remembered another conversation with my friends from London who I met at Mount Bromo. They had visited the U.S during the previous year and commented that they had never felt so embolden. “Your music, your commercials, even the advertisements on the streets are all so empowering. We left feeling like we could do anything and then we got back to our country,” they said laughing.

The Neighborhood Boys! Smile?

Hearing about my own country through the viewpoint of another gave me so much clarity into my own mental state. They were right! I live in a country that tells ordinary people that they can do anything. Can be anything. Can go anywhere with hard work, perseverance, and a dream. Even the pages of my passport are stamped with messages that support this theory. “Democracy is based upon the conviction that there are extraordinary possibilities in ordinary people – Harry Emerson Fosdick.” No wonder I was having such a difficult time accepting India as is; I was looking at it and measuring it against an American standard that praises the extraordinary and reminds us that we are Dreamers and “Do-ers”.  While I looking at India as a checklist of what it could be, Indians were living their lives amidst what it was.  Dreamers vs. Realists.

In the end, I think that India has taught me a very important lesson: No matter how “open” you think you are, you have to understand how your own mind set colors your perception of the world, in order to see and accept that someone else’s isn’t right or wrong, just different.  

Smile?  Indians take very serious pictures!

Title: Tuk Tuk Chic

If my kids do this to me, then I'm having corrective surgery!

Stairs, escalators, and elevators are for wussies!

Hi Baby! Please smile...

Parliament

Going to the chapel and we're...

The last steps of Ghandi as as he made his way to pray right before he was assasinated

Road Trip: Indonesia (Part 2)

(Continued from Road Trip: Indonesia (Part 1))...

See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil

Christian is the easy going, fearless, adventurer in the group. Fishing and surfing on the North Sea is in his blood and he reminds me of Beowulf for some odd reason.  He is the type of guy who can blend into any environment and will strike up a conversation with ANYONE. Of all his traits, his "anything is possible" attitude is what I'm most envious of . He actually caught a local bus to the slums of Jakarta to just “walk around” because he had read so much about the poverty there and he wanted to see it for himself. “Are you nuts?!” I asked. “It’s no problem,” is his typical reply in German accented English. I want to be him one day.

Sailboats? Really? lol

In the meantime, I’m so American to him and it keeps him in stitches. He hasn’t been to the U.S yet and his friends tell him stories of people riding on electrical motor carts in the grocery stores and he can’t believe it! I try to explain that they are for elderly, handicapped or obese people, but obese Americans using electrical carts in grocery stores is beyond ridiculous to him. So, when I’m listening to beach waves on my computer while relaxing in bed under the fan, he can’t help to laugh because I’m a block from the actual beach and I could sleep there in the sand. “It’s WAY too hot today for that and there are mosquitoes everywhere,” I reply. So American… He promises to take me deep sea fishing when I get to Germany and I think I may take him to the grocery store so that he can ride an electrical cart, when he comes to NY.

Deep in thought...

Richard is the Yin to Christian’s Yang and I often wonder how they managed to stay friends for so long. “We balance each other,” Richard tells me. Where Christian is “Drink more, talk less!” (his other favorite saying), Richard is very contemplative and philosophical and we talk a lot. We talk about love, life, culture, and everything in between. His full name is Richard Guerra and when he reminds me that Guerra means "war" in Spanish and I tell him that Richard is synonymous with Dick in the U.S.; he laughs heartily, when I began calling him Dick War. “You’re hanging out with Christian Kruse and Dick War!”

Richard is Latin and passionate and it is reflected in his music. He makes girls swoon all over Bali whenever he decides to randomly serenade people around us with his guitar or hop on stage and join the local band. “I can’t believe I met the lead singer of ChupaCabras, can you sign this,” tourists who recognize his band ask as we travel. A Peruvian, living in Germany for the last 15 years, his fluid switches between Spanish, German and English really takes people for a loop when he’s singing and rapping. His music is wonderful, but more importantly, he is kind and I find myself sighing when he stands and offers his seat to a lady standing on the bus, saying “I cannot watch this.” He promises to take me salsa dancing when I get to Germany and I’m writing this down so that they can remember!

  

Richard signing autographs

Over the next four days, we make our way across Bali shopping, eating and talking. No stone is left unturned and I simply adore these guys. We drive through and stop at temples, stores and beaches in Singaraja, Sembiran, Ahmed, Amlapura all the way to Ubud. With the Adventurer in front with me, we often come across something and I’ll say, “Did you see that?” Christian’s reply often mirrors my enthusiasm, “We have to go do that! Turn around!” Richard, the Philosopher, goes along with our mayhem, but will often show us what we are missing. Hiking towards the highest waterfall in Bali, he says “Look around for a minute. These mountains can make all problems seem small.” He’s right.

 

Ubud is our last stop together as they are headed deeper in Indonesia over the next month and I am headed to India. Once in Ubud, we go to the Monkey Sanctuary. I’m scared of monkeys (period.com), but I go anyway praying that I don’t get scratched; that’s an instant trip to the hospital! The Monkey Sanctuary is packed full of wild monkeys roaming freely around tourist. It's an incredible place to just sit and watch the action or monkey drama.  We have a ball there and start searching for accommodations immedialy afterwards. We settle on a guesthouse that can accommodate the three of us, check in and like every night we head out on the town to listen to music and chill.

Ubud is chocked full of western tourists and is nothing like the authenticity we had encountered earlier in our drive. Also, the city basically shuts down early after dark. I was aware of this as the draw in this town is the artist community that has gathered there, but the guys were pretty disappointed in this part of Bali. Ubud is more like a Banana Republic edition of hippie Berkeley, California. Since our choices for nightlife were limited, we made due in celebration of the end of our road trip by heading to the grocery store for Bingtang like college kids.

 

Drink more, Talk less

Richard who is a vegetarian and doesn’t drink alcohol either, has had to be flexible with his diet in Indonesia since vegetarianism isn’t a major priority everywhere. Since he had already crossed the line a few times, he decided he would drink a Bingtang tonight too. Two beers later and the night was over! A drunken naturalist is the funniest thing you will ever encounter, hands down. Richard was the entertainment for the night and we laughed forever. We went back to the guest house and settled into a bitter sweet routine of getting ready for the next day, our last day.

And this is where things got hectic…

Kiss!

After Christian ran out of the room, I sat up and went outside to try to gauge the situation. Richard wasn’t on the veranda, where he had gone to write earlier, but the night assistant for the inn, a tiny Balinese woman, was standing there. The Guest house is setup like a compound of individual rooms with exterior entrances all facing a courtyard that contains the family temple and a beautiful garden. Christian, who was near the garden looking up at the second floor of rooms, finally turned to the assistant and speaking in English, told her to call the Police. “It’s too early, no one is available. They won’t come,” she replied. Sometimes there’s a point when traveling when you realize that you REALLY are in another country; this was one of those moments. The look on Christian’s face when she said that was the exact sentiment in my head. “TOO EARLY?! THE POLICE?! WTF?!”

All of sudden it sounded like someone was taking out a wall with a sledge hammer. Christian ran up the stairs and I ran back into the room to put shoes on. I’m not a fighter! I have never been in a fight in my life, but know firsthand how violence can escalate and within a fraction of a second lives can be altered. I was scared out of my mind and worried for these guys, especially since I had no clue what was going on, none us of were in our home country and apparently the police weren’t available. MADNESS! I came barreling out of the room, looked up to the second floor and Christian was holding Richard back and Richard was cursing like crazy. The next voice I heard was female and she was saying in a heavily Asian accented voice, “He’s trying to kill me!”

Richard would never lay a hand on a woman! This didn’t make sense, I thought.

Upon hearing the woman, Richard said in English, “Then leave your husband tonight! This is your life, your health! We will stay so he can’t follow you!”

For me, the context of their conversation clicked immediately...

“I have no money! I cannot leave him,” she shouted back in anguish.

Suddenly a German accented voice in a room that I could not see into said, “She is not my wife!” and then continued shouting in German. I’m not sure what he said, but Richard was trying desperately to get back in that room and holding him back, Christian’s face took on this serious look. Pointing his finger at the man and in a tone I had yet to hear him use, he said something in German so ill that every man up there was suddenly quiet. It was eerie…

Finally, the owner of the building arrived and she headed directly to me. “What is happening? Is it safe for me to go up there?”

“Lady, I have no clue! It’s quiet now, so you should go ask.”

Only Richard and I laughed at this sign; the German didn't get it.

She’s scary like me, so she waited for Christian and Richard to come downstairs to explain what was happening. When they finally came into the room, Richard had blood on his shirt and the look in his eyes broke my heart! Apparently, he had been writing and when he heard the man upstairs beating and kicking a screaming female, he reacted. People had come out of their room, but he was the only one to race upstairs and open the door. When he opened the door there was blood all over the woman and all over the floor. Yelling, Richard pulled the man off of the woman and the man beating her said with a thick German accent that the woman had bit him. Realizing that this man was also German and according to Richard, “should know better than to hit a woman,” Richard began telling him off in German. When the man made an attempt to get the woman again, Richard had had enough.

Men in skirts!!

If still waters run deep, then Richard is the middle of the Atlantic. That sledgehammer sound I heard earlier was Richard opening up a can on that man, right before Christian pulled him off. “I have never seen him like that,” Christian said with a little pride and puffed up chest (Way too much testosterone floating around...). Running to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences is exactly who Richard is; this is his character. Loyally protecting his friends and shutting the whole thing down with scary ass intensity is exactly who Christian is. They fit; the priest and the mob.

The man and the woman were kicked out of the guesthouse and the man went past our room telling Richard and Christian that he would be back for them in the morning. He said this in German and I didn't see them as they passed by, but when Christian told me what he said in English, it was a wrap! I’m ready to go! Now! They looked at me like I was retarded.

“It’s too early and you have a long drive tomorrow by yourself. You need to rest,” Richard said. “We will leave early, but you are safe here,” Christian said as he went to change the locks on the door, “It’s no problem.” Richard changed his clothes, they turned off the lights and they went to bed. Really?? I did not sleep a wink! I am not a fighter!! I sat in bed listening for heavy footsteps, biting my nails and rocking like Miss Sophia. I kept expecting a big, wild looking German man to bust through the doors like Karl in Die Hard. Every time I heard something and got up to check, one or both of them would wake up and say, “Go to sleep. You are safe.” I bet they wished they had never told me what that man said.

Temple entrances are so ornate.

Around 6 am, I figured that the guest house staff was there and I could leave the room and go use the internet to call my husband. I unpacked my laptop, unlocked the door and headed towards the main house where the wifi signal is. It was still dark, but if the staff was there I figured I’d be fine. I turned the corner and at the entrance to the courtyard, standing under a light was the beat up chick! She looked like that movie “Carrie”, with all the dried blood on her face and clothes and she just stood there and then awkwardly said, “Hi." I didn’t even respond! I could have given Usain Bolt a run for his money as I high tailed it back to that room. I busted through the door, re locked it, pulled out every doorstop I packed and slid it under that door! Seriously, I am not a fighter!

The first person to wake up was Richard! “What is going on?”

“The beat up chick just scared me. She’s standing there with luggage,” I said.

“You’re safe here. It’s no problem.” was all Christian said in a groggy voice before they both went back to sleep. REALLY?? This is a MF problem!

Here’s the thing, they know how to protect themselves, so when faced with situations like this it doesn’t scare them. I, on the other hand, can only swing wild, uncontrolled, windmill punches, scream like a banshee, and run. I’m scared.

Way too much testosterone floating around!

When morning finally arrived, I made it to the main house and immediately skyped Chad. My husband is fighter too, so he likes Christian and Richard, but as he signed out he said, “You’ll be fine with them. Besides, Indonesia don’t want no real N-words to come over there!” (Way too much testosterone floathing around...) I ended up calling my mom and chatting with my brother on Facebook too! Just in case I came up missing in Indonesia, I needed people to know what happened! I stayed in that house for so long talking to people, that the inn keeper finally came over and said that the gentlemen were waiting on me to have breakfast. I do believe that I’d rather eat out of a garbage can on the other side of town, than stay here even one second longer, but I head back for breakfast anyway.

When I get back to the veranda where breakfast is being served, the guys are more worried about me not sleeping than the potential of a man coming back for them. They actually look so relaxed that I start wondering if I was being uptight. If Richard would run into a room to protect a woman he’s never met, then I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I were in danger.

Over breakfast we begin dissecting the night and I realize three things:

1) Like most men, they left out details that would have saved me from a nightmarish night. For example, I wish they had told me that the man was pobably 5' 2", clearly overweight and ridiculously inebriated.  REALLY?! I was looking for Karl and you guys were beating up Tattoo! I could have slept!

2) These are good guys and I’ve made some lifelong friends

but...

3) I’m definitely too old for their hijinks...