It's all about The Fire, isn't it?

(I originally had this posted on Facebook, but Mom urged me to post it here. This was written while in Germany... before coming to Turkey. Yes, I was in Germany for about five days before coming to Turkey. I will be here until... Wednesday at which point I will return to Germany for another fivish days before coming home. It has been very lovely, but very cold. I stupidly lost an AMAZING pair of gloves on the bus to Naples :( and did not realize it until coming to Germany and then being seriously annoyed because my hands were cold. Serves me right. They were well used in Cortona. I miss them.

Upon arrival in Turkey, we both did not see my uncle who was picking us up and did not see my bag which had to be checked in. Gordon thought he had their number, but didn't and I thought my bag would be with the rest of the luggage from my flight, but wasn't. It was with the 'International Flights' luggage. Such an annoyance. Ah well. Gordon was determined to find turkey to eat in Turkey on Thanksgiving, it turns out that it was entirely unnecessary as, just as I predicted, my aunt has a beautiful Thanksgiving dinner for us here. It was wonderful.

Alright, without further ado, the stuff I posted from Facebook. Mostly my thoughts on the Tea Fire and the end of the Cortona program.)

Something to contemplate a year later.

It came up tonight, The Fire did. It put our little, insignificant school on the map for the whole country to see. But people shrug it off. They say "Oh, Westmont. Didn't you all get caught in that fire a while back?"

And my mind flashes back to fluorescent light streaming through gray and a thousand students pacing or laying about, lackluster and in shock about the whole situation.

"Yes," I say, "I spent sixteen hours in a smokey gym."

I try to explain how it was, but they've already lost interest. It isn't real for them. It isn't real like it was for me.

They don't understand that every time I smell smoke, I think about how the ash burned my eyes every time I laid down.

They don't know that whenever my clothing smells like cigarettes, I remember how my clothing smelled like smoke, even after the shower at Kelly's and how after a month of them sitting in the car, because I didn't even want to bother with them, how even then, they smelled of smoke.

They don't realize that any time I see a light on a hill or something illuminating the night sky, I get a rush of adrenaline until I know for sure what is causing the light.

They can't imagine the sinking feeling of hearing the destruction over the loudspeaker.

They can't hear the wind screaming or see the orange sky or watch a red sun rise through a sea of ash.

Cortona.

Yes, it's all about that fire. Nothing can be quite so bad now. I can have patience with other situations. Getting up at 2:30 to wait five hours in an empty airport is nothing.

I understand people not understanding. I understand when they don't feel as I do.

They won't know the rush of meeting strangers and suddenly realizing you have another family, even if you don't quite feel like it yet.

They can't see all the art works mingling together from centuries and centuries all forming one long narrative, talking to each other and being able to talk back in their language.

They haven't heard the endless conversations of fifty people living in the same space and cooking in the same kitchen, drinking the same wine and tasting the same peppery olive oil and saltless bread.

They don't know the view that was never the same any two days. They aren't familiar with the burning in our calves from the hill, just not steep enough to be a staircase, nor the cold wind on our chapped faces brushing up the falling leaves.

They will never drink cappuccinos with quite the same relish. They won't visit the same places in the same sequence or walk quite the same foot steps. They'll never ride in the same buses or trains.

They won't hear the same voices chanting lessons, explaining the meaning of the cupids on Goliaths' helmet or why Mary's robe is always blue or why this line should be longer or how this needs more value or not to carve in that direction or how to order food without sounding like a complete idiot.

They'll never taste the same walnuts, pears, figs, noodles, pesto and cheeses.

They won't curl on the couch with the same people.

They won't know the echos off the high ceilings or complain about the light in the hallway going off after a few minutes.

And they'll never know quite the same feeling of bereft after leaving all this behind.

In the end, it's all about The Fire, isn't it?