One place I visit has a room all for me, one has a mattress on the floor, one a vintage couch, one is a shared dorm where a loud snorer sleeps right near me. I poke his toes after asking him to turn around and be quiet, he’ll just assume a fetal position so that I can’t poke him anymore: he’s won and celebrates with his triumphant fanfare of snores.

One place is a hot city, golden and blissful; one is a wet place on the alps, too fresh for what I’ve packed; one is the countryside full of flowers, sunny days and cool nights; one is muggy, hot, sticky: when did I forget how much I hate humid heat in dusty towns?

One day I wake up and understand all the movies in a language I never studied, the next day I sound American to my neighbor Spanish fellows, humiliated I realize I can’t speak at all, that day, and I just lock myself indoors until the menstrual aphasia has gone or, rather, when my host looks at me a bit worried, a bit annoyed.

One day I decide to post in English, and miss the sounds of my invented words in Italian, how they sound in my mind and on the keyboard, their silliness, their rhythm and sound. Sometimes everything is easy, and I love Europe, and I love the world as well but want to come back to Europe; some other times everything is complicated and I feel like a stranger no matter where I go; most times I have to make my home inside my skin first, and renovate it every morning.

One week after the other I sweat my minerals off in the hottest summer of the century in northern Italy, then, suddenly, I am back in Oz, in the cold, windy and wet winter, where the promise of warmth and proximity was only a nice story told to entertain the entertainers, and I struggle on my bike while trying to keep my nose on my face, frozen, and my eyes open, watery.

I think I want to be in Berlin, then I remember why I love Melbourne so much, I just look and can’t believe how much beauty there is around; I’d need a whole life only to sit around and take it all in, notice the noteworthy and admire the admirable. I want to take it slowly but never really let myself stop in the present moment because I am sick and there is a lot to do before next trip, and I have little energy and have to spend it well, not just being and feeling, but well, productively, ouch.

One day I start a blog post and write and write, then get lost and leave it for five minutes, that become two months. One day I think I’d like to be cool and cynical and sarcastic, powerful in my shiny shell of beliefs and self-definitions, but I always remember that I am actually courageous and tired, so I rest a bit then come back to the exploration, to all the places and languages I’ve chosen to belong to, to the skills I’ve assembled in myself to make the journey smooth and functional, to the garden of emotions that is blossoming new ideas, to myself, to my friends, and to this blog.