Old Venezia.

With the date and the knowledge that Operation Reunite is about six week away, I am ansy. I am reminiscing quite a bit. I can't stop thinking about what it will be like when I see him again for the first time. I remember seeing him at the airport in Geneva through the open doors of the baggage claim, feeling torn between the three humungous suitcases of clothes and the man I love standing on the opposite side of the door frame. Seeing him in February when he surprised me for Valentine's Day was no less climactic. He showed up at my house and was standing in the doorway when I came home from work one evening. We were surrounded by friends and family and we were both elated.When we see each other in Rome, it will be just as incredible. I don't know if our meeting will be at the airport, at our hostel or where, but all I know is that I'll be in his arms for a most memory filled two week-long date with my bestest friend.

I did a walk down memory lane post about five months after we were in Paris, and I never got around to posting one about Venice. So I think, my dearest readers, that now is the time.


We met Brian's brother, Drew, in Venice. The three of us hadn't seen each other since their graduation from MSG school that previous February, so it was, needless to say, a wonderful experience to take in the grandeur that is Venezia. We  took the train from Geneva into Venice which proved to be such a unique experience. I had never traveled by train before, let alone such a distance (it took about eight hours from beginning to end). We traveled through the snow-covered Alps, and honestly, I don't have the words to describe them. They are majestic. Powerful. Daunting. They make you feel tiny. So insignificant. But in the most awe-inspiring way. You really can't know what they're like until you experience them yourself. So we pull into Venice, find Drew, and immediately want to find food. I think that's something that we all enjoyed the most on this adventure, was chewing our way through pasta and bread and practically swimming through wine. I ate some tomato-y, cheesed up deliciousity and I haven't the slightest at what the boys ate..but we took that first day and just wandered. The best way to discover that city is unguided and unmapped. There are little tiny streets that Americans would probably do their best to avoid if they were still in the States, but those, you learn quickly, are the ones you walk down first.

We found a place for gelato, which we made a point of having at least once a day while we were there. We had mulled wine and hot chocolate (Drew, wasn't it more like hot fudge?). We had pizza. Oh my good, sweet Lord, did we have pizza. The sauce was sparingly waved over the tiny, crispy crust. And the wine was incredible. Sweet and easy going down, I would drink it in place of solid food. It was all amazing.

If I had to pick a word to describe Venice, it would be enchanting. I felt like I was under some spell sometimes. Was I really living this? Am I really seeing these things first-hand? Let me describe the city to you - the people who live there know this obviously, but tourists do not for the most part. The city floods. Every morning, the water rises with the tide and rinses clean/makes dirty the walkways once again. The locals don their galoshes and go about their daily lives, while tourists are absolutely dumb-founded. At night, locals come out and place together platforms end-to-end so there is something of a catwalk strung out about the streets of the city. It really is a marvel. The fog rolls in about 5 or 6 and with it, it brings a sense of mystery and romance. Couples stroll hand-in-hand, some sit and make out unabashedly. The mist hits your face, a tactile reminder that you are so alive in this beautiful and captivating city. Before the water ever thinks about rising in the morning, there are produce vendors manning their many varieties of fruits and vegetables. Close your eyes. You smell chestnuts in metal drums being roasted, fish carts meeting orders of awaiting buyers, so many types of fruits you loose track of what might be what. This was what breakfast was every morning.We'd eat our fruit as we walked, taking pictures of the canals and the mutli-colored residential buildings lining the canals. The textures were rich, from the blue and white of the clouds and sky, the murky grey of the rippled water, the burnt red and the cool greys of the brick and mortar of some of the buildings. The paint was peeling, the wood was rotting. All of these things enriched the experience of such a welcoming and wonderful city.

Before I close, I want to share my favorite memory. I couldn't even tell you where on Venice we were, but there was a large courtyard type place as we were walking back to our hotel. There were people sat on benches chatting, others darting about to unknown and various destinations. Tables were sporadically placed with people lazily conversing. There was no rush, no immediacy to anything anyone did. It was such a wonderful change. As we were crossing the courtyard, there was a little girl kicking a soccer ball around with her dad, I guess. She tried kicking it to her father, but it lost direction and started rolling my direction. As it came to a halt, I walked up to it and nudged it with my foot. She smiled, so I kicked it back to her. She bent down to pick it up and launched it back to me. I rushed towards it, grabbed it and pretended to hide it. She smiled again and pointed at me, too smart for her own good. She knew exactly what had happened to the ball, obviously, so I reappeared the ball and kicked it gently back to her. This playful exchange lasted for a few minutes, then I blew her kisses and said "Grazi, bella" and toddled off. What a sweet memory.

Looking back at our visit to Venice, I would do it all over again so many times. It was such a laid-back, easy-going, picturesque city. It was one place I felt comfortable walking around in, not concerned with who was around me. Maybe that's my naive and overly trusting side speaking, but no matter where you walked, you'd smile at someone and they would smile right back at you. What a wonderful thing for a city so penetrated with tourists and strangers. I will never forget old Venezia.

Again.

Here I am. Awake. Laying in bed. Alone. My Loneliness Capacitor hath overfloweth.


I am so sick of being without him. I didn't know feeling like this could get to be so intense. I guess its a blessing being able to feel this strongly about someone, but it's sure hard to believe that when you feel so far away. I ache for nothing more than to hold his hand or to kiss him goodnight.

1 year, 3 months

It's a wonder how we've made it this far and grown this much. When you told me you were leaving again after two weeks of being home from a seven month deployment, my lungs emptied. My eyes stung. My mouth probably hung open like one of those silly-looking Venus Fly Trap plants. You told me that your commitment was three years' duration and I asked if I could take a few days to think. You nervously obliged, and in a day's time, I had my answer. You've always been worth the sacrifice. You always will be.

It hasn't been easy, sitting at home waiting for those couple weeks of blissful togetherness. Poor us though, huh? Traveling through Europe together. What an amazing opportunity for you to work and live in different countries. To travel to places mostly only ever read about. And to be able to expose me to these things too. I am unbelievably lucky to have the opportunity that I do, to use your duty as an excuse to see the world with you.

It's been kind of tricky, redefining normalcy. Our relationship is by no means traditional. It never has been, so why should we expect it to be any different now? Even though we've known each other three years now (has it really been that long?), we have only been a couple for two, and only six months and three weeks of that has been spent face-to-face. We have fought, we have cried, we've been reunited, we've plotted and schemed, we have laughed and we have discovered the beauty of the webcam. There have been days were insecurities get the best of us, and there are days where that Mont Blanc climb would seem like cake. We've been plotted against, and we've been rooted for. There have been packages and flowers sent over thousands of miles. This thing is not easy, but oh my goodness, babe, it has been one hell of a ride.

You make the absolute best partner to have being faced with this separation. I could not imagine going through this for or with anyone else. You do your part flawlessly. I appreciate every sacrifice, every stupid joke to cure a tearful day, every message you send. The effort you put forth speaks volumes about your commitment and feelings for me, us and our future. I continue to wait for you because I see that you are always wanting the best for us.

As we near our two year anniversary, I can't help but be nostalgic. It's a trip to think about everything that we have been through to make this relationship work thus far. I'm so proud of us. I am so proud of you, everything you are, who you've become and the man you're becoming. I've always said this about the day we met at Sushi Itto - I had no idea why you were put into my life, but I immediately knew you were someone special, someone I wanted to know, and someone I wanted to know me. Oh, and aren't I glad you do. You know me inside and out. Sometimes you know me better than I know myself. Thank you for everything - your patience, your love, dedication, humor, loyalty. Here's to our time together and our time apart. Here's to our history and our future. Here's to us.

I love you more than I could ever tell you, but look forward to spending the rest of my life showing you.

Stagnant

I feel like I am sitting stagnant in a river, collecting moss. My job is the thing that I put 100% of my energy and focus into and it has got me nowhere. With the start date of my esthetician program very slowly approaching, I am getting more and more antsy to begin the path that will actually get me places. Makeup, skin care, and educating myself on all things esthetics is what I want to be doing. I want to immerse myself in things that are not menial and petty. I want to get a move on with my adult life, not work at a mall. I understand that people make a long and fulfilling career out of  the retail industry, but that is not the choice I am making for myself. I would go absolutely bonkers. I am at the point in my tenure with the company that I need something more.

Most days, I love my job. One of my favorite things about it is working with clients and building a rapport with them. I love starting new clients on our product especially because I believe in it. I am at the point though, that internally, I am at capacity for bullsh*t. The small, meaningless things have surmounted the meniscus of my patience, and I am really, truly ready to tackle the next chapter of my life. I am ready to make something of myself, to lay the groundwork for a healthy and well-rounded life. May 31st can not get here any faster if it tried. After today, I have little tolerance for goings-on at my workplace. Starting esthetician school will be a wonderful and welcomed change. Something to refocus myself. I don't want to worry about my job, because it is just that - a job. I come home annoyed, stressed and frustrated a lot of times from work, which  I find sad. My job should be fun, but like I said, my tolerance for any additional frivolity is limited and that gets the best of me often.

Here's to bigger and better things, to crossroads, and to brighter futures. I swear, I'm not as negative nancy normally. I just had to let some steam off. I will, from here forward, focus my energies to looking forward to the positivity that comes with the anticipation of starting new.

Swiss Review: Part 1

I know these are long overdue, but better late than never, right?

I left San Francisco at 8:30am on November 11th to embark on an almost-unbearable but long-anticipated 14-hour journey, by far the longest plane ride of my life thus far. I was "functioning" on very little sleep, mostly due to a week's worth of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I boarded the plane that morning and found my seat. I was pleased to see that it was on the aisle. Pleasantries were exchanged with my fellow passengers, greetings were announced over the speaker system on the plane, and off we went. Nothing especially notable took place on the first leg of my trip. I land in Minneapolis to find one of the biggest airports I'd ever been to. Thankfully, it was easy to navigate. I found my next gate seamlessly and just in the nick of time. Being that this leg was the one to get me across the Atlantic, onto foreign soil, there were many a tongue spoken at this gate. My eyes were wide with bewilderment as I listened. I heard Dutch mostly because this flight would be landing in Amsterdam, and because Amsterdam is a major international transfer hub, there were many different people representing many different languages and cultures. From what I remember, I heard French and German mostly, but there were people speaking Swahili, and assorted Middle Eastern languages as well. Walking to the gate, I got an alert from Facebook telling me that Brian had updated his status to: "I get to see my Jennay in 12 hours :)" I was beside myself with anticipation.

So we flash the attendants our passports and file into the plane. Of course my seat is in the very back of the plane, in the middle most seat. Next to a heavy woman. Who talked a lot. But it was okay, I had just talked to Brian on the phone as I took my seat. My excitement was now affecting my blood pressure; any higher and I would have popped an artery. At any rate, we took off. Babies screamed. Neighbors chatted. I started my period. We ate nasty food. And in my plane-induced insomnia, I stared for hours at the video screen in the back of my neighbor's head which told me that the temperature outside was -66 degrees Celsius and that we still had 6 hours of flying time to go. I chatted with my next door neighbor some (yes, the large African lady next to me). We talked excitedly about our destinations and how we couldn't wait anymore to land finally. She was very sweet and gave me some Nyquil and let me sleep (and drool) on her shoulder. Before we knew it, we heard those long-awaited words:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final decent into Amsterdam. Please ensure that your tray tables are in their upright and locked positions..."

As large as I thought the airport in Minneapolis was, it was immediately dwarfed by the size of the airport in Amsterdam. Thank goodness most everyone spoke English, because my knowledge of Dutch is nul. Somehow I made it to the customs line, which looked like I might never get through. Alas, I did, and after some heckling from the attendants in the security line because I had WAY too much change in my wallet, I was released. It then literally took me a half-hour just to walk to the part of the airport where my gate was, and then another fifteen minutes to find the blasted thing. Who puts terminals at the level of the tarmac? Silly Dutch engineers. At any rate, I clamber down the flight of stairs to get to the waiting area. My original plan was to be completely "done" as I boarded in San Francisco, but because of the ridiculously early hour, I decided against it and to just ready myself in a restroom in Amsterdam. However, in my haste to leave the house that morning, I had to quickly rearrange my strategically packed suitcases and materialize a (not so) well-thought out carry-on.  The outfit I had wanted to make my debut in was nowhere to be found. I was stuck wearing my sweats, hoodie, and Uggs. Fantastic, this is exactly how I wanted to look, showing up in beautiful and fashionable Europe to see my boyfriend for the first time in ten months. Whatever. I was tired, smelly and just plain ready to be in Switzerland already.

We were finally able to board the plane. As I sat, they made their required announcements in get this - four languages. They spoke in Dutch first, then French, then German, then finally English. I was astounded! I was feeling cultured already. As soon as they uttered the last required word, my eyes shut and I was dead to the world. I woke up about fifteen minutes prior to our landing in Geneva, and I was greeted by the most beautiful sunrise. In brilliant pinks and shades of blue and lavender, the skies of Switzerland welcomed me. I was literally minutes away from seeing my man.

I deplaned, made it to baggage claim where it took me almost a full half hour to find all of my belongings, in which time, I look over and see Brian wandering, no doubt trying to find his baffled and un-savvy traveler of a girlfriend. I am not allowed to pass through the gates freely, mind you, so I am to wait for all of my things to come off of the conveyor belt. Of course my suitcases are the last to come off! As soon as I struggle to pull the last one off the belt, I waddle through the door to find my handsome Marine. I think there has never been a time that I have smiled so wide for so long or held on quite as tight as I did that day. There are literally no words to describe how amazing the first hug and kiss feel after almost a year of being apart. For the next two weeks, he and I were all that mattered.

Stay tuned, faithful readers, for I am turning in for the night. I will continue to rehash all things European in the days to come. Bon soir, mes amis.

Resonation

Note: I actually began writing this while I was IN Paris. Just finished writing it today. It was wonderful recounting the details to complete this entry..enjoy :)

If you look up the word "perfect" in the dictionary, I am nearly certain you'd find the picture of Brian and I in front of the Eiffel Tower taken earlier today. Nothing about today was mundayne. I'd waited ten months for the moments we shared today and this surely surpassed everything I'd dreamed it could be.

Rounding the corner from the Metro station, I noticed nothing exceptionally different about the neighborhood. There are naked trees lining a large, still-green strip of beautifully manicured lawn. Small shops and homes of every sort lined the streets, adorable Parisian flats, apartments, even large, sprawling houses. There were a couple sporadic churches too. Nothing changes about the scenery as you near the tower, except this wonderful rush of anticipatory excitement. Also, nothing about this scene is anything different from what I'm used to seeing here in the states, but knowing that I was growing ever nearer to this architectural gem, my building excitement grew exponentially. Somewhere between being lost in the flurry of excited jibber-jabber, and hiding from the biting and penetrating wind, we exited a place of ordinary sight and sounds and stepped into a place I never could have prepared myself for. I head tears in my eyes when I first saw the Eiffel Tower. Standing at over 1,000 feet, it dwarfs everything at its base. Just to put its magnificent size in proportion - the Washington Monument in Washington, D.C. stands just over 500 feet. That means the Eiffel Tower is twice the Washington Monument's height and is almost 100 years its senior.

Seeing the tower meant more to me than simply laying eyes on a piece of historic architecture. I took French for years, read (well, tried anyway) some French literature, and tried to absorb anything to do with French culture I could without actually immersing myself in it. I find everything French romantic - the language, the food, the Parisian lifestyle, the buildings are even romantic in their own historical context. Everything in Paris, well all over Europe for that matter, has been there for so many years. I would love to be able to know of everything these things have seen. Marriage proposals, arguments, first kisses, breakups maybe? Who knows. But in the 150 years that the Eiffel Tower has stood on its four sturdy legs, life has gone on for the better and worse. It is so romantic to me to know that among the gorgeous years that have passed, no moment has gone unseen. Knowing and believing this made beholding the tower a much more meaningful and beautiful experience.

If all of this wasn't enough, my wonderful boyfriend indulged my girlish fantasy of kissing me at the top of the Eiffel Tower. What a rush. Imagine - 1,000 feet above a most indulgent, culturally rich, busy and bustling, inspiring, and romantic city, you are standing there soaking up all of the aerial scrumptiousness Paris has to offer. You're snapping silly and precious memories in desperate moments of recording every touch, kiss, giggle and glance. Then he kisses you. It takes your breath away. Very much in a "chick-flick, straight off the silver screen" sort of way. There is no sound, there is no outside sensory stimulus. It all disappears, the bitterly cold wind, the itchy scarf around  your neck. There is suddenly no one at the top of the Eiffel Tower but you and he. Everything is gone, everything except for that fantastic rush, the sweet feeling of his lips on yours and the strong possibility that you may have reached your allotment for perfection for that day.

That was my first experience of the Eiffel Tower.

Our second visit was no less perfect than the first. We went at night this time, but didn't go to the top. We watched it glitter (oh yes, the Eiffel Tower glitters via thousands of fabulous light bulbs flashing in mesmerizing choreography once every hour), allowing it to richly flavor our experience. We walked underneath the Eiffel Tower to see what there was on the other side, finding just another view of the same breathtaking monument. This time, however, I was the lucky recipient of the moment that will forever define my personal experience in Paris. Is it so vivid that if I sit still enough and allow myself to sink back into this memory, I could tell you about the stillness in the air, the chill pinching my cheeks, the buttery smoothness of the banana and Nutella crepe that was warming me from the inside. I can tell you too about the smile plastered on my face and the moment that I realized I was living one of my life-long dreams. I was in Paris with the man I love, watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle.

Being in Paris was a dream come true. It was a few days brimming and overflowing with hope. Of inspiration. Encouragement. Days that reminded me that beauty reigns, that love conquers all and that the simplest things can have the most profound impact on your whole life.

I remember doing some preparatory research on places to visit while in Europe. One blogger wrote that no one understands how profoundly life-changing a trip to Europe can be until they've gone and experienced it for themselves. Oh, how the truth embodied in that thought resonates! You can see all of the photos you'd like, read all the book on culture, on art, even literature, and while you'll gain a new type of insight and knowledge, you'll never truly understand until you're immersed, drinking every little bit up (or eating, as in my case).

That ten month wait to be in the arms of my beloved boyfriend was insanely difficult. But words aren't plentiful enough to allow for proper expression of the goodness I was fortunate enough to experience in a place I am fairly certain materializes happiness and glitter and love in midair. I left my heart right there, on that street behind the Eiffel Tower, in front of that blessed crepe stand, and in return, that city, that magical, historical, beautiful, whimsical "City of Lights" gave me a fresh heart, a renewed sense of romanticism, hope and beauty. To you, Paris, I will say, "merci beaucoup, et a tout a l'heure, mon ami."

Nooooooook

One of the girls I work with got a Nook Color from her dad for Christmas. Esthetically, the thing looks like the younger sibling of an iPad. Its specs offer five gigabytes of available hard drive space, a full-color, 7-inch touch screen to download and read books, newspapers and magazines, and has full wi-fi capabilities. The five gigs of memory can hold 6,000 books or up to 100 hours of audio.

I adore the idea of the ease and portability of 6,000 books. But the silly and practical side of me got to thinking about how reading, to me, and countless others, positively, is a multi-sensory experience. I love everything about reading. I know we've covered this a head-splitting number of time, but browsing the isles of book stores brings me an over-abundance of joy. But that is just the very beginning. "Reading" isn't just a verb to me, it's a mood, it's an ambiance. It's the smell of the pages, whether they're virgin or well-loved and read gazillions of times. It's the texture of the binding, and the crinkle of each turning page. It's a day off spent under the covers, or a Friday night in, taking a bubble bath so relaxing you fall asleep reading, allowing the bubbles to consume you and your papery companion.

Considering my tactile obsession, I think I will never get a Nook. Well, I shouldn't say 'never', because you know how that goes. I digress. But even more in the argument of traditionally bound books, I love the way all of these tactile things add to the mood of reading. In the throes of a deepening plot, I can't wait to turn the page and see what wise thirteen-year-old Anna says next in "My Sister's Keeper" by Jodi Picoult. Or what Harry's next move will be in the battle against Voldemort in the last book of the Harry Potter series. I also very much enjoy basking in the construction of the artful use of the English language. In "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert (shameless plug number 229398483), I have come away reading that book each of the four times that I have feeling fulfilled, like I have just sat down and enjoyed a beer with a friend I haven't seen in a while. "Smoke Jumper" by Nicholas Evans is another solid example of literary artistry. He weaves the lives of three individuals so tightly in a very briskly-paced story that you have no time to consider the twist in the end. Authors that posses the ability to envelop your senses that entirely are really worth their weight in gold.

Or in the book I literally put down an hour ago, "My Sister's Keeper", Jodi Picoult skillfully maneuvers her way through the book, carefully crafting the points of view of the family members, officials of the law, and medical professionals traversing a difficult medical and ethical pickle. The youngest child of three, Anna, decides after thirteen years of being held responsible for her sister's health, that she no longer wants to shoulder that responsibility, and will be suing her parents for the medical rights over her body. Anna, by the way, is a perfect genetic match, genetically created by her parents to help keep Kate, Anna's older sister, alive through an aggressive and long-winded battle with a rare form of leukemia. The story is just plain believable because of the way Picoult draws out the details in her characters and progressive situations.

One last example comes to mind. Photography is another passion of mine. I don't claim to be Ansel Junior, I promise, but it's a hobby nonetheless. In the same way this Nook contraption is taking the world by storm, digital photography has as well. I see many benefits in its defense, but I also see film photography as something of a lost art. I understand, technology is forever evolving, and in most cases, I highly appreciate it. But I also know that I'm an old soul when it comes to some things. And my one favorite thing is the tangibility of a deliciously papered book. Preferably with lots of dogears and highlight marks and notes in the margin.