(If you haven’t, stop reading this right now and go pick it up. I don’t want to ruin it for you!)

A woman was reading it on the train and it all made sense.

You know how the boy goes on this wonderful, fantastical, adventurous journey in search of treasure, but realizes during his travels that the hold was at home, underneath the tree he laid under? But there was no way he could have known that unless he went on that wonderful, fantastical, adventurous journey?

Well, I get it now.

The time has come. The time where waking up in the same bed in the same city, day after day, sounds more appealing than packing up my bags and being on the road before check-out time. 

The time where having a kitchen and a gym membership sounds better than crossiants and beer halls.

I’ve enjoyed my time on the road, loved every experience, but I’m just tired. My body and soul are ready to be still.

I got accepted into school.

It’s all good timing, really.

In seven days I’ll be back in America and in twenty two I’ll be in the classroom.

I’ve lived my dream and will continue to do what I want, when I want to do it. 

Right now, it’s to be still, but not stagnant.

Who knows what I’ll want next.

This used to be the kitchen. It’s now a cinema to show us the terrors that happened mere feet from here.

This happened. This all actually happened, and not that long ago, either.

Such calculated, extreme, hatred. It’s unimaginable.

I cried in the shunt room. The room all prisoners had to initially walk through when they arrived. A reception office of sorts. 

“Take off your clothes. 

Stand in a line. 

Give me everything that makes you human.

Those pictures of your family.

That letter from your wife.

You don’t have a name now, only a number.

Step over here to get your head shaved.

Individuality does not exist here.”

I can’t imagine being stripped of the feeling of feeling unique. 

Below is a journal entry form February 21, 2012.

Where am I?
Why is life so wonderful?

This place cannot be real.

I’m in Venice, writing this by candlelight on a worn wooden table, surrounded by brick walls, with exposed beams overhead.

Oh, and it’s a buffet. Bruschetta is coming through by the platter.

And the whole thing is five euros. This is probably the happiest place on Earth.

It feels like I’m on a date with myself and I don’t know if I’ve ever done this before. And if I did, it definitely wasn’t by choice and I definitely was not happy about it.

This is what I mean when I said I want to learn how to be alone but not lonely.

I may be the only person by myself in this place. Cheerful conversations in languages I can’t understand are fluttering about, but it doesn’t make me wish to be a part of them, or even have someone here.

I am happy. I am happy.

I hope I stay this way. I think I will. At least, it is more hopeful than ever before. Before, I was only content in the extreme perfect conditions and anthing less would throw me into a fit of negativity.

I wish I wrote when I was at my lowest to see the true transformation from then to now. It’s drastic, and while people may not be able to tell from the outside, there is a total change on the inside.

I guess this is what growing up feels like.

Welp, I’m probably about fifteen plates in and the place is filling up. It’s time to leave and explore Carnevale.

Here’s to cheap food.

Here’s to happiness.

Here’s to now. 

Crates and crates lined the streets of Ivrea. 

The history of the festival has multiple variations.

A popular account has it that it commemorates the city’s defiance against the city’s tyrant.This tyrant attempted to rape a young commoner  on the eve of her wedding. His plan backfired when the young woman instead decapitated the tyrant, after which the populace stormed and burned the palace.Each year, a young girl is chosen to play the part of Violetta, the defiant young woman.

Every year the citizens remember their liberation with the Battle of the Oranges where teams of “Aranceri” (orange handlers) on foot throw oranges (representing ancient weapons and stones) against Aranceri riding in carts (representing tyrant’s ranks). 

The locals were incredibly enthusiastic. THey said they looked forward to the festival every yer. 

Teams in horse drawn carriages are pulled through the streets, and there are teams on the ground. 

They literally just chuck oranges at each other for three hours.

I was talking to one of my best friends a few nights ago and it made me realize that, while I enjoy traveling, I haven’t found people quite like the ones I left in Los Angeles. 

There is just no one like those people.

I’m not traveling to find a place where I feel at home. I’ve found it, and it’s amongst the skyscrapers and street art of LA. 

I’ve love my time in Europe, but I miss America. Maybe I don’t miss America as much as I miss feeling settled.

Having a kitchen.

Having a gym membership.

I’m ready to be still, at least for a little while.

Again. 

Wyatt and I were reuniting in Turin, Italy for the Battle of the Oranges in Ivrea, and it just so happened to be my birthday. 

He told me to meet him by the glass doors by the McDonalds.

“It’s right after you get off the train. You can’t miss it.”

I missed it.

Wandering around the station, I finally found someone who was able to speak enough English to lead me to the McDs.

When I got there, a girl was holding a sign up with my name on it.

“Are you Ashley? Wyatt is upstairs waiting for you.”

I hadn’t seen him sine Paris, and I missed him. I did. While I in no regret my decision to split up, I was excited to see him. 

I got to the top of the stairs and there he was, with a cake made of tortillas with nutella stuffed between them, a fake bouquets of flowers sneaked from the neighboring cafe. 

I have the greatest friends. I really do. 

London - Paris - Izaut-de-l’Hôtel, France - Barcelona - Rome - Naples - Florence - Turin -Venice - Salzburg - Munich - Garmisch - Stuttgart - Heidelberg