Two mosquitos in the shower.
Another mosquito, this one dead, on the wall above the nightstand.
One thick black hair of indeterminate origin, situated squarely in the middle of my pillowcase.
A feud with the gentleman who rented me a room in this purportedly fine establishment once I pointed out the wayward hair.
One leftover cigarette in the room’s ashtray that really makes one reconsider one’s commitment to hypochondria.
Insight into the relationship of the couple in the room next door, who are definitely getting a divorce. Federica can’t understand why Lorenzo insists on leaving his wet swimsuit on the floor when the drying rack is mere inches away. Lorenzo would, in no uncertain terms, like her to calm down.
A silent alliance with Federica.
The achievement of seeing the “You’re all caught up!” message on Instagram.
Actually, make that three mosquitos in the shower.
The realization that I am not, in fact, someone who could “get into hiking” given the right circumstances.
The subsequent realization that I am also not someone who could “get into journaling.”
The understanding that when Ray Bradbury said, “Half the fun of travel is the aesthetic of lostness,” he said it as a man.
The conviction that all those people claiming to love the meditative properties of a 45-minute bath are surely lying.
One semi-suspicious, definitely new mole right next to my elbow.
The phone number for a new dermatologist after my former one not-so-politely asked me to stop emailing her photos of my arm on the weekend.
The brief but compelling urge to call my ex-boyfriend. Not about the mole. Just, you know, to catch up.
An acquaintance with the voice in my head, who has turned out to be British and sounds remarkably like Dick Van Dyke.
A fourth mosquito, this one by the mini fridge but suspected of being in cahoots with its brethren in the bathroom.
One grey strand by my left temple that’s more of a platinum blond when seen in a certain light, really.
“5 Ways to Prevent Grey Hair, According to Experts” — WikiHow.com
The fine print on a bottle of $24 citronella spray I brought with me and will never purchase again.
A lack of linen-clad Italian men falling in love with my neuroses and inviting me to their home on the Amalfi coast. The fact that I am not presently in Italy is immaterial.
The conclusion that Frances Mayes is a dirty rotten liar.
One Bible in the nightstand. Presumably for ecclesiastical emergencies. Or for reading mosquitos their last rites.