I picture myself in Italy.

An aparment in an old city by the sea. I'm on friendly terms with the
local people. I eat breakfast at shop a few streets away, every
morning that I'm here. A warm pastry that I couldn't name- or make-
for the life of me, and a cup of tea, breaking my bread with the dawn
(nearly), watching the street come to life again.

I see myself on the balcony- (my apartment has a balcony, small, only
enough room for a cat, a plant, and me. The railing is metal, old but
sturdy.)- one hand on my cat, the other writing lazy, random
descriptions in a precariously balanced notebook (Leatherbound. Red.
The pages are thick and heavy, but soft, drinking in the ink from my
pen.) If I turn, step back into the apartment, I see this:

Across from me is my front door. To my left, the kitchen. It's small
(the apartment is small. I like it that way.), the appliances old, but
modern. I could replace them, but the loud hum of the refrigerator is
comforting when I cook my meals, another presence in my household. The
cat, plant, and I would get lonely if it were gone (I suspect the cat
and plant would disagree with me, but the fridge stays.). In front of
me is my living room- the Italians have another word for it, a more
elegant word, but my American speech lingers stubbornly. To the right
is a door, slightly ajar, leading to the bedroom, and another to a
bathroom. The space is small (of course) and cozy, decorated with
items from my (not, as yet, extensive) travels. I write; I photograph;
I immortilize, or hope to, the beauty and terror that exist in the
world. (I also write travel guides. They're slightly more useful and
ensure a paycheck.)

When I leave for exotic locations, the grandmother downstairs (a kind
woman, who has decided I can't cook, and often tries to show me how-
or sometimes just brings me food) takes care of the cat. (Also the
plant, but it's slightly more self-sufficient.)

The local males are, for the most part, friendly and no longer rude
(though perhaps my standards of 'rude' have changed). I have no
husband, no boyfriend, no lover. For now I am content without.
Someday, I will cease my journies, and settle down to write novels. I
hope, then, to be seduced by an intelligent, funny, well-off older
gentleman, if I can find one who will oblige me (though if neccessary,
I could settle for funny and intelligent alone.).