Prologue to Sicily

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What are you doing? Leave, right now. Put this book down and go, there's nothing for you here. You won't be a better person for reading this. You wouldn't have done anything constructive. All you're doing is listening to the long-winded ramblings of an attention deprived traveler.
Stop reading! Go out and find all that waits to be discovered. Vicarious experience--words on a page--is no experience at all. Do yourself a favor and close this book right now.
You're still here, huh? Don't say I didn't warn you.

I often view experiences like these as a sort of Rorschach test: how will I react in these situations, what will I think, how will I feel? The answers to these questions help to define me, and are telling of my character.
I could fill these pages with the full history of the places I had been, document all the art, and plaster panoramic pictures of everything that was in my path. I could describe every message sent to my brain by my senses--describe in great detail and wonderful metaphor how it smelled, what I saw, the coolness and warmth, the sounds along my meandering path. But there is nothing that will do it justice. There is nothing I can say which will recreate the experience in your eyes, nor indicate how anyone else may react upon seeing the same things. My thoughts, and yours, are the product of our uniquely wired pathways.
Before we begin let me say that this book in no way recounts some fantastical tale of survival or extended stay with the backwoods people of wherever, who eat sheep testicles and urinate in rings around their huts to ward off evil spirits. This is simply a tale of my trip and a glimpse into my mind--I know, it even scares me; just be glad you're getting the abridged version--as I traveled from place to place. Mundane by comparison perhaps, but this is not about action and adventure, it is about me and those people who had an impact on me during my journey. So, good, bad, or incredibly handsome, this is me in Europe, at 25.

January 3, 2008: Lancaster, PA

Why am I going? I can't count the number of times I've been asked that question over the past few weeks. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure myself. There is a certain sense of comfort that comes from routine. Routine can breed complacency, especially when it is based around idleness and uninspired goals. I feel the need to break from that before it encompasses me and drains my ambition; to re-energize me and break from the comfort I've come to rely on. I don't want to look back fifty years from now and say "I always wanted to, but..."
Every cell in my body with a shred of common sense is telling me this isn't the smartest thing to do. Fortunately, I don't possess too many of those cells. So here I am, about to do something I never dreamed I actually would, perhaps unprepared for my little adventure, and I couldn't be happier.
Partly, this trip is to see places I've always wanted to. To visit with different people, different cultures, and explore a history I've only read about. Perhaps this is part of my ongoing quest to convince myself that no matter where you may go, people are the same--loud, obnoxious, and completely inconsiderate--but a person is decent and genuine. Perhaps it's to prove to myself that any animosity towards another culture is largely the result of national pride, superficial prejudices, or confusing an individual on vacation with a representative of a country. Or perhaps these thoughts are all thanks to my college roommate, who kept our dorm room warded against all those distressing pink elephants that roam the wilds of West Chester, by having a thick, protective layer of endo smoke in our room at all times. Either way, the ticket is bought and I'm going one way or another. I shall see very soon whether I'm an intelligent, thoughful human being, or one whose brain has been turned to a nice pudding-like consistency.


January 6, 2008: Lancaster, PA

Before I begin writing of my travels I feel the need to remind myself (or anyone who happens to read this) that this journal is meant purely as a means to convey my thoughts, ideas, prejudices, and interpretations of what I see and do. I will be brutally honest, no matter the way such a tactic portrays me. This is not out of some noble effort , but because to lie here is to mislead myself. This journal is for posterity. It is to remind me of who I am now, or to look back and say, "Oh dear god, did I really do that," or, "perhaps flipping off that cop who cut me off wasn't the best idea."


January 12, 2008: Lancaster, PA

Step...step...step... nuts to this--Jump! That's a bit like how it feels right now, being thrown in the deep end. Granted, that is how I learned to swim (or, more precisely, I was pushed into the deep end) and it's usually how I learn best. Still, that knowledge never stops the butterflies from churning my stomach.
I've been getting sporadic jolts of anxiety about this trip when I have a moment to relax and really think about what I'm doing. Little moments of clarity where I think, "are you out of your fucking mind!" That poor better-judgment part of my brain doesn't get much attention. But that feeling is half the fun. It's exhilarating to know that I won't have much of a safety net, no sanctuary, no living soul who knows me within 4,500 miles, and to know that if things go sideways I have to figure out what to do on my own. You might say it's a bit of a rush, to be simultaneously scared shitless yet completely excited about the same thing.

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