Travel Log: Cinque Terre

Travel Log is a series of posts that I’m typing out, word for word, from my personal written journal that I bring on trips. & Trust me: I write a lot.
Don’t expect too much journalistic flair — This is typed straight from my trusty ol’ college ruled freewriting.
No edits, no additions, no afterthoughts.

It’s the closest possible thing I could think of to bringing you with me.

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On the train to Riomaggiore, Cinque Terre, Italy
September 10, 2010

.
Goosebumps.
.
I have never seen any freaking place so beautiful in my life. And it was only when the train allowed, the tunnels: GLIMPSE. GLIMPSE. GLIMPSE.

St. Margherita
Ronolla (?)
Chiavari (List written to remember which stops were prettiest)
.

Such quiet, untouched beauty. Ooooolllld apartments, graffiti, crumbling, tired, against the most perfect sea you can imagine. I’ve never seen an ocean so big. So perfect. Content. I got MAD goosebumps when we first came out of a loooooong tunnel and we were surrounded by green rolling hills dotted with orange and yellow houses; red shingled roofs, green shutters. Lush. Rolling. Abundant.
.
I didn’t even take out my camera.
Idiot.
Honestly, I was afraid to freaking BLINK for fear of missing anything.
.
I will never forget these crazy, sunkissed colors: Mustard, yellow, pink, salmon, sea green, brick red, peach. Red shingled roofs. Green shutters. I’ll own a house with them someday. Houses.
.
I’m not a kid anymore.
No one needs to hold my hand on trips. I don’t have that sentinel figure(s) to look to for direction and agenda, where I can turn off my brain and follow the like sheep. This older couple whose been in the same carriage as me, they got up & gathered their bags and I felt a twinge of sadness. They seem like they’d be nice parents. I almost felt like I could follow them, like he’d reach down & pick up my backpack, even wear it for me like my dad would, and I could just follow.
.
Nope. My backpack now. My journey.
I don’t know. I feel so full of… anticipation and promise and my life before me that I might cry.
Because I’m scared? Because I’m proud? Because I’m grateful and undeserving?
.

Probably a combination of everything.

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