There - I put on Chloe mauve heels and grabbed my matching clutch, shined my lips, batted my lashes, walked out the door, down a 90 degree hill, snagged a cab, cleared a velvet rope, sat down at a table with friends in a room full of people in a city full of millions to be totally alone.

Here - I put on deodorant, grabbed a comrade, shined my smile, walked out the door, up a 90 degree hill, snagged a beer, cleared language barriers and stood in a small group of strangers in an unfamiliar town in a country smaller than my state to be totally accepted.

Originally I would have spewed that existing in a foreign land carries with it a certain amount of isolation.

I deal in words with an addiction to forced intimacy, my tool belt full of adaptability and, moreover, cool.

So, how will these Italians ever know that I’m cool – if I can’t tell them, if I can’t prove it?

In Mexico, they told me, just say, “A guevo guey,” meaning, “Fuck yeah, dude.”

“Tienes un tiempo bueno?”

“A guevo, guey.”

“Tu es alta.”

“A guevo, guey.”

“Mi madre esta en el hospital.”

“A guevo, guey.”

It works…most of the time.

The first thing I asked my interpreter was how to say “cool.”

Over a birra, my comrade says, “People are so nice here.”

I don’t know how to dazzle my new friends with linguistics.  I only know to say “cool”, to laugh, to apologize and refuse late-night “una domanda.”

Here - there is movement and interaction and curiosity and acceptance brimming the way my Peroni glass was a moment ago.

There – there are pods of people with pods in their ears, pausing only to talk to one another about other people with pods in their ears.

I choose here.  Even if I’m not cool (alla meglio), it is.

Che figo!

Maybe I’ll take the cue and just grow a mustache.