Not as Creative as Italy

Life in Florence goes well. I have made friends and I do well in my class. I love the traveling. Visiting the sites of some of the most inspiring work in the world does wonders for the imagination. Travel writing has stolen my heart. I love long flowing descriptions and recording the life of a tourist. I believe I have discovered a life plan for myself. At least something to get me started on the right path. Yesterday I met Nicky Swallow. A name unfamilar to most, but pick up an Italy guide book from Barnes and Noble and her name is emblazoned on the title page. I can make a living traveling the world and writing about it. To begin with I would start as a fact checker. I would take a guide book written by someone else and guarantee they didn't make any mistakes that would throw a tourist into utter confusion. From there I would work my way up to writer. It sounds so perfect. The writing in guide books is much better too. More journalistic and less creative. I am not the best creative writer. My professor told me today that my writing style was very good but far too formal and grammatical. She wants me to break the rules and be more bold and daring in my sentence structure, but I like uniform and rigor. In my opinion messages are many times lost when the writer strays away from the rules of grammar. When the author writes in things like stream of conscious the message is made more difficult to understand. I do see my professor's point though. I am very stiff and formal. Not only in my writing, but in most aspects of life. The goal for the rest of the summer is to relax my personality more, and crumble more away from the wall in which I use to distance myself from the world. I am to work on being more approachable, and in a land full of strangers I will have plenty of practice.

Postcard #1

The touch screen box contraption in front of me lit up with numerous options, but none of the small windows read, “Buy a ticket.” Instead all of the print on the apparatus was written in Italian, so I stared hopelessly dumbfounded at the fast ticket machine as locals and tourist alike bustled past me carrying varying forms of luggage. Seeing the look of confusion permanently glued to my face, my traveling companion, a New Yorker and subway riding expert named Nicole, scurried over to manipulate the magic box. She typed in a mystical unlock pattern, and suddenly the English translations appeared on the screen. After a few more taps and an exchange of my credit card information, I was rewarded with a round trip train ticket to Viareggio.
The train ride was about an hour and thirty minutes, and we spent the entire journey with our eyes on the wondrous Tuscany country side that was beyond the grimy window. Vast expanses of classic stucco houses with rustic tiled roofs filled the picture frame. The houses were off set by the gradient grass hills covered in browning terraces. Every now and then a conscientious Italian farmer or a grazing heard of cattle would add character to the picturesque landscape. The sea of burnt sienna, emerald, parchment, and brick went swimming past as the locomotive speed for the next railway stop.
After short stops in Lucca and other small Tuscan towns, Viareggio appeared on the royal blue sign with white lettering that indicated we had arrived at the train station. With excitement, my friends and I collected our beach bags and jumped onto the concrete platform as soon as the sliding metal doors opened. The inside of the station was a blur of caffes lined with gelato, croissants, italian sandwiches, and newspaper and magazine stands as we rushed outside to the road that would take us to the beach.
Passing through the glass train station doors was like entering into a circus tent. Palm trees flanked the cobble stone street that was home to candy colored shops and apartments. In the center of the vertical street was a sandstone church that towered above the rest of the taffy flavored buildings. The church was decorated with a modest white cross, small exterior statues, and a pastel colored fresco high above the door. Moving on from the church was a brick clock tower that rang out in chimes every fifteen minutes; it was a block from the clock tower that the horizontal board walk began.
More shops and palm tress made up the board walk and there were even a few small children’s rides. Hungry, we entered one of the pizza restaurants that was oozing with the smell of freshly baked dough. Lynette, a Texas girl who spoke the most Italian in the group, asked, “Quanto costa questo?” The shop keeper, a rounded Italian man with a trusting smile, hefted a slice onto a scale and pointed at the numbers that appeared on the cash register. “Uno, trenta euro.” he replied. A bargain! We quickly paid in coins and took our pizza slices to-go.
We walked the twenty feet to the dark sand which was scalding hot on our feet. Vibrant tents, beach chairs, and towels littered the beach as grey mountains loomed in the distance. Locals were everywhere soaking in UV rays to brown already tan bodies or playing games of volleyball and soccer on designated parts of the shore. My two companions and I scouted out a clear spot near the sun bathed tide. We set up our small camp of towels and sat down to take in the relaxed atmosphere and watch the sail boats drifting in the distance.