last days in romeville

so there, it's over, the sunshine, the peronis (italy's VB) on the cobblestone, the barefooted streetsellin, the scooter rides, the aperitivos downstairs, the murky catacomb smell of the cantina, the falling asleep with the nonsubtlety of traffic, the feeling of home, the appropriation of the square, my square, everybody's square...
fabian hands me a gift, a photo taken in india, with a story, and then santiago hands me another, he just crafted with his smiths hammer and an oxidated silver-copper plate.

[il mare dall'alto sembra carta velina, e poi un po' piu' in alto seta stropicciata, e ancora piu' in alto carta di riso, e poi infine le mani di mia nonna. si dilata, rugoso e gonfio, respira. 3256 metri. il segnale delle cinture di sicurezza si spegne]

and there is a slight sense, upon leaving all this, that i shouldn't be on this plane, not at all, not now, and that i haven't the slightest idea what i am doing.