Cris enjoyed the smell of the bus: mildew, b.o., and the aroma of pets at their owner's side. Even if most seemed to grimace as they entered the cross-state transit, Cris would remained thoroughly intoxicated by the communal sensation. For the duration of the trip he would be allowed to live life as he never had, in the company of the impoverished.
He had romanticized the trip for days now, imagining the chatter, the luggage he would sneak a peek at, but he never imagined how overwhelmed he would become after only a few minutes. There were three groups: little league baseball players, missionaries, and the various single occupants on their way to who knew where.
"I dunno, I think that--that the way they are taught as children keeps them from wanting to accept Our Lord and Savior."
"You can't really believe that. God is always there, and he can always be found, if you have the right people to lead you to him."
--
"Can I try on your glove, Timmy?" -- "Why does the bus smell like poop, dad?" -- "Where's my crackers?"
"Honey, just give me your hand and I'll take off the band-aid for y-- okay, out of the way for the old-er woman." -- "Hi." -- "When do we get to the festival?"
--
The disjointed conversations were the least of Cris' worries, as two miniscule dogs hopped into the empty seat next to him. A frown began to grow apparent there. A leash led from the dog's necks to the seats behind them, where their owner sat, leaning over Cris' headrest.
"I hope you don't mind my babies sitting here? You see I'd have them sit next to me, but there isn't a seat. Say, do you have red hair? That's great, thanks."
Had Cris given an answer? He must have, his expression having changed from annoyed to surprised at her welcome intrusion. As she leaned back into her own seat, he was once again alone. He had hoped for someone to sit next to him, for hours and hours of conversation, for a look into the every-man's life, for some street-smarts. From the corner of his eye, he looked down to the two dogs, trembling as they slept, curled next to each other, depicting a yin-yang.
Hours were passing, several people had departed to the bathroom. The only reason he knew was because of the smell he initially enjoyed mutating into that which even left the dogs rubbing their noses. Their names were Rose and Lilly (with two L's, because when the woman let her niece name her, she specifically stated that there should be two L's so that she wouldn't get confused with her neighbor's dog Lily with only one L. The owner had told the vet that there was only one L though, because who spells their name with only one L? She had tried to explain to her niece why people spelled it with one L, because that's just how you spell it, but she wouldn't listen.)
By hour three, he had slouched down in his seat, looking out of the crack in his window. The low hum of the chatter rose and fell, like the hills they traversed toward the nearest International Airport in the East. He was thankful for the dogs sharing the space with him, instead of one of the other occupants.
By the time he was taking his seat on the plane, he had officially grown tired of the peons which surrounded him. On several occasions the flight attendants attempted to comfort him on the flight with no cause. He was sixteen, not a child.
As liftoff began, his blood pressure rose, anxiety ebbing and flowing out of his vessel of a being. The Xanax that he had taken upon boarding was lovely, though. He packed two. The first one didn't last halfway through the bus ride. Even his hair smelled of dogs by now.
The intercoms buzzed to life, and an announcement about their destination began:
"Upon arriving in Italy, we kindly ask you not to take any flash photography in the historic terminal in the airport."
He must have fallen asleep before she could make her point, because as he woke up, more concerned flight attendants where attempting to rouse him off of the plane.
He didn't know where he was going. After asking a few people around the terminal, all he gathered was that he should have learned Italian-- even those who knew English seemed to speak with an alien accent.
He was sitting in the terminal, watching people come and go. The medication must have been lingering, because with his indifference went his common sense. His aunt's telephone number was in his phone, but at the moment this information was beyond him.
A few drivers loitered in the darkening dome of the terminal, the vicinity littered with sculptures and paintings of a nondescript sort. One walked up to him, speaking in Italian for a split second before halting.
"Euh, American? Ride?"
Cris nodded, shrugging a little as they walked toward the exit, the driver donning his humble and worn hat, lugging Cris's baggage. They drove in silence for a few moments before the driver tapped the rear-view mirror to get Cris attention.
"Where?"
Cris peeled the folded paper from his pocket, handing it to the man who had to pull over to decipher it. Then they were driving again.
Even though the airport seemed like worlds away from his suburban home, as they traveled the scenery and bumpy roads, the surroundings became even more unfamiliar. He wondered if he would ever see a house again. For a split second, he wondered if these folk lived in houses as he imagined. Silly, he thought. Just as the thought left him, they came upon a large clearing of farmland.
His aunt had sent him pictures of the place, but a 4x6 post-card didn't do the vastness justice. She owned all of this land? It took him a moment to realize that the driver had stopped and was asking for payment. Cris took care of it, handing him some coin of the region until the driver gave a look of satisfaction.
Alone again, on a hilltop. There was a house-like structure in the distance. He had to jump a fence and evade a few dozen cows in his travels before making it to the interior garden. There he lost himself. Between the exotic flowers and regional hedges, he was daunted with his height difference. Maybe he was walking for an hour, but by the time he came upon the olives, he couldn't contain himself. As if starving, he plucked from the low-hanging branches, biting into one. The regret was sinking in quickly. He would have chipped his tooth if the under ripe olive had even allowed him to rip into its flesh.
A gunshot was heard, and before he even heard it, birds flooded the sky and startled him from the low branch, causing him to fall on his back. Footsteps approached, and all he could think was to cling to his luggage.
"Cris. Those aren't ready yet, Cris." A matronly woman hovered over him, trying to figure out his expression, if he was confused or high or what.
"Hi Aunt Tena."
"You trampled my garden and disturbed the cattle." She said, hands on her hips, apron swaying in the wind, her form like a monolith before the sun.
"Can I live with you?" He replied.
A smile came over her features, but she tried to hide her reaction as a hand reached down to help him up.
"Let's find out if you can farm first."
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