March

March was shaky, and then it was calm.

I experienced my first earthquake in March.

I was in my Bogota apartment, tired from a long night on my feet. I was about to fall asleep when a series of progressively forceful jolts rocked the beds. I thought I was dreaming.

Then the shaking intensified. Why?

It was happening.

My heart went. The kitchenware and cutlery made loud noises. The bed rattled violently.

I grabbed as much of the mattress as would fit in my palms.

Outside, the electric poles swung back and forth. The wires buzzed. Alarms from cars and buildings filled the air. Glass broke. People shouted. The darkness was cut by headlights and flickering streetlamps.

Fear and awe swirled around inside me. The Earth screamed at me, loudly insisting that I was very small.

“I believe you!” I wanted to scream back.

She is a truly ruthless and implacable force when she’s mad.

The bed shook. I got up. I felt like I was carrying heavy chains. Earth and I danced a fierce, primal dance — she leading while I tripped over my feet.

After 30 seconds, which felt like 30 minutes, the shaking stopped. The noise faded into silence. My heart still pounded.

I got back into bed. I stared at the ceiling so that it wouldn’t start moving again.

The worst part of the ordeal was laying there and expecting aftershocks.

Every time I’ve thought about that night since, I am reminded of my smallness, and of the tenuousness of life. The ground doesn’t feel as permanent or reliable anymore.

Quakes happen fairly often in Colombia, apparently, but this one was the biggest in years.

I left Bogota a few weeks later.

As was always the case in Colombia, the Uber driver on the way to the airport insisted that I sit in the front seat. Uber is technically banned there, so this inconspicuous seating arrangement is done to blend in. Accordingly, their Ubers don’t have stickers. The driver and I could have been buddies.

“Ahhh, aeropuerto. ¿Adónde vas?”

“Madrid”

“Dale. ¿De dónde eres??”

“New York,” I told him, as I often do. It’s easier that way.

And then I got on a plane to Madrid.

I love Madrid. I love Madrileños.

I took a nap on a firm bench in Parque de El Retiro.

I ate a flaky pastry in the bed of a woman who told me not to. That was petty, I suppose, but now we’re even.

I sat on a very old church pew. The Catholics gave me wonky looks, presumably because I was underdressed. I thought I looked fine. I don’t think it bothered God.

And then I went to Florence. There were too many obnoxious-looking girls from places like Ohio State and Rutgers, and an equal number of sordid men from faraway countries who were eyeing their purses.

Then I left.

I took the train halfway to Pisa and got off in a small town called Monsummano Terme, the closest to my aunt and uncle’s olive farm.

Under the olive trees in Tuscany, I sat on the incline beside their stone farmhouse. It was a simple but beautiful place, with walls that held the sun's heat and cool air that seeped from the ground. The sky above, blue and vast, seemed to stretch beyond the limits of the world.

In the mornings, the sun would rise over the hills and flood the valley with warm golden light. I watched it spread, creeping across the vineyards and the rows of cypresses and parasol pines that lined the road to the town. The distant peal of church bells announced the arrival of a new day, stirring the Tuscans from their slumber. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee wafted throughout the commune, mingling with the earthy aroma of the soil and the faint tang of the olive trees.

As the day wore on, the sun would climb higher, casting its heavy heat over the land. The birds' chorus grew louder, their voices melding with the whisper of the wind through the olive branches. I would nap beneath the trees, the dappled light playing on my closed eyelids, the rough bark of the tree trunk pressed against my back. The sun, strong and steadfast, would turn the grass beneath me to warm silk, and the scent of crushed thyme and wildflowers would rise as the heat grew.

In the afternoons, I would walk through the groves, feeling the cool touch of the leaves on my face and the soft crunch of twigs underfoot. The breeze would ruffle my hair, carrying with it what seemed like the fragrant scent of lavender fields and the salt-tinged air of the not-so-distant sea.

When the sun began to set, the earth would sigh with relief as the cool of the night descended. The sky would burn brilliant hues of red, orange, and pink, casting long shadows across the land. I would listen to the lowing of the cows and the barking of dogs.

There were many lizards with green scales on their backs. Hoping to find an exotic name, I tried my hand at taxonomy. I succeeded.

The emerald ground dragon?

The Italian rock monster?

No, unfortunately.

The European wall lizard.

Apt, I guess, but a bit of a bummer.

Then I took the train to Rome.

It was a very fast train. I’ve never gone that fast in a car. You probably haven’t either.

What am I supposed to say about Rome? What is anyone supposed to say about Rome?

I walked a lot. It’s an interesting enough place that my legs didn’t get sore despite the fact that I marched upwards of 10 miles a day with nearly everything I own strapped to my back.

And now Paris, where I’m writing this.

I’m late.

It’s late.

It’s April now.

I love you.