An Introduction Of Sorts

I don't know how to blog. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing apart from finger-punching letters into a white box. I don't frequent blogs, I don't really know what an RSS feed is, I don't do HTML. All I know is that these things just simply exist. In all honesty, I am not entirely set on the idea of blogs: public diaries in which an individual highlights and describes moments, bits of intrigues from their exciting lives that they deem as worthwhile and exciting enough to share with the world and/or record it for themselves. Blogs are places for people to brag. Blogs are places for anyone to flaunt their adventures. If an individual's life is as exciting as they claim it to be, when do they find time to write? I don't really like blogs and probably will never return to read this weeks, months, years later. Having said that Kara and myself will be blogging to record our journeys in Florence, Italy and beyond. In a sense, all anyone has to read from each entry is the date. This will assure everyone that we are alive and well. No one's forcing you to read this. You may go about your daily lives assured of our continued existence overseas.

So this is the beginning. Well actually this is more of a prelude. It's early afternoon, two days prior to our departure. I am living in a cliche stolen from a late nineties romantic comedy. Kara naps in her hotel bed as I sit adjacent filling this white box with words that may or may not hold any meaning, value or worth. To add to the cliche I play some contemporary classical via iTunes and allow the drones and groans of nearby Boston traffic to accompany the piano heard through my laptop's speakers. As I sit here I realize I have no idea what I'm getting myself into come Monday evening when we depart for Italy. I don't know Italian. I don't know much. I should be nervous or maybe even scared, but I am neither. Though extremely grateful of the opportunity that I have been handed, I am content. I am autumn's leaf as it dances across the iced city's surfaces. Sidewalk. Curb. Sidewalk again. Manhole cover. Back to the sidewalk again. With each biting gust, I willingly allow the wind to take me to a new locale. Monday evening I'll find myself being pushed again. Though I have done the research and studied the maps, I do not know where I am going. The airline ticket says Florence, but I say who knows. Just as home is not a place, but a feeling: Florence is not a city, but an experience. This trip will be what we make of it--as banal as that sounds. I'll see you in four months or so.

"Ciao tutti!" she wrote.

"Who's Tutti?" I asked.

I guess we'll find out.

- Brendan