The third cigarette left my head spinning worse than the expensive ale bought from a tiny fridge in the hostel's lobby. In the room behind me I hear the emotions revolving. One person laughing, one person crying, one person silent, wait a minute and they switch. I flip my zippo closed a few more times then falter and drop it into the drying leaves. My frustration tells me I can retrieve it when needed. At this point I notice the graying woman reading under the awning of a BMW van converted into a camper. "I'm sorry for the noise", I say, "do you speak English?" She calls into the van and her husband emerges shouting "English yes" through the cup of bean soup he is eating with an over sized spoon. "I'm sorry," I repeat, "we where just scammed by a taxi driver for almost three hundred Euros. We'll quiet down in a bit." Although I left out the dark curve where the taxis stopped and the four trips Franco the con-artist made to the glove box for fake price sheets I thought would be a gun, the man seems sympathetic and smiles rather than lecture me on our sound. They are from Holland, he says, a beautiful country, I respond. This is my usual reaction to anyone's nationality but for once I mean it. He asks about my studies, our ages must give this away, and soon we're discussing Kant. I know he is trying to clear my mind and I'm glad that my philosophy might now offer me rest. Shauna emerges from the tiny room and reminds me and Megan that we missed dinner in our Naples rush. The Hollander points to the trees, where we now see oranges, and laughs. Megan takes this as a challenge but failing in her jumps I am ordered to my knees by Shauna. One dusted flat over either shoulder and Megan teeters as I stand. Pops above and four large oranges fall into Shauna's hands.
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