…And then, the summer of the World Cup.

I don't even know where to start!  Summer of 2014 was such a whirl, in every sense of that carefree, dizzying word.  From Denmark, we went to Bavaria:

The poppies looked extra-bright red, growing along the edges of the blue wheat fields.  Our friends live in a small village outside Munich, above the old town restaurant and beer garden.  There really are pretzels the size of my face in Bavaria.

The chaffinches followed us around everywhere, easy to hear and harder to spot.  Oh, and that summertime tree in the yard:

I could easily have wiled away the rest of the season there, taking evening walks around the perimeter of the neighboring fields, cycling into town for groceries, settling into World Cup mode.  

But then we clicked our heels three times and ended up in the jungles of the Seychelles:

Vallée de Mai, Praslin

 We toured the world's last refuge for the coco de mer.  We made friends with the locals:

Madagascar fody.

We met the self-professed best soccer player in the Seychelles; but since they won't allow women to represent for the World Cup, she was rooting for Brazil.  She works security at a bank in downtown La Digue, and has a smile to match her ego.

A local sailor delivered us to the sandy shores of Cousin Island:

Fairy terns.

Party boat.

My pal from San Francisco came all the way across the planet on a jet plane and met us in the jungle!  I've been begging the universe for years to bless me with such flagrant serendipity.  It finally worked!  Hail the gods of luck.

I saw about seven million textures I want printed onto my skin:

The garden at La Digouise Guesthouse, La Digue.

Crazy twisting foliage, Baie Lazare, Mahe.

A green gecko and a coconut.

We bought vegetables from a street-side stand and cooked up a lovely curry at our self-catering place; sat on the porch in the moonlight and listened to the rustling of night-creatures.  For the first time in my life, I was able to see how the big dipper and the southern cross hang directly opposite from one another in the night sky, and now I kind of get it: that the world is navigable by basic means.

Look at this pumpkinseed, asleep above our outdoor bathroom:

I hear even Janet Jackson enjoys the beaches on the Seychelles.  Who wouldn't?  Hello.  

The cable antennae in our hotel room was missing, lent to a friend of the owner for the duration of the World Cup, but there was a selection of old movies available as a consolation prize.  We watched Roman Holiday, and then look what happened to us:

We ate pizza and ice cream and saw all the obligatory sights, including the maddening throngs of other tourists, and the Trevi Fountain, dry and swathed in scaffolding for restoration.  Rome might have been a disappointment, compared to Audrey Hepburn's unforgettable visit, if it weren't for our last magical night in town.  We entered the street to the lush sounds of someone's harp practice, and thus anointed in romance, began to have one of those terrific urban adventures where you stumble on one thing after another.  A park full of average locals: real modern Romans; a cathedral; babies on the swing sets; another cathedral.  Streets full of people dining al fresco; many other fountains, restored and flowing; the civility of readily available drinking water.  We ended up on the steps of the Pantheon, listening to a string quartet play in the moonlight: four young talented students, making something of themselves and sharing it freely.  We stayed until the polizia broke it up. "We can abide the World Cup, but not the police," said one of the students, apologetically.  From there we followed the sounds of a cheering crowd to the Piazza Venezia, where the World Cup final was, finally, on big-screen display.  The crowd was divided by loyalty, but not rowdy.  A man near my right kept swaying from foot to foot and periodically shouting his dream score at the unheeding screen: "Argentina tres! Alemania cero!"  His friend, red-nosed but comparatively composed, asked us in Italian who we rooted for, obviously preparing to curb the enthusiasms of his fanaticism.  We let him know it didn't bother us if he rooted either way.  But when the Germany fans cheered for their victory, we smiled and thought of our friends in Bavaria, and Ivon, in particular, up late on a school night, like everyone else his age in that entire nation.  Next time the World Cup comes around, I plan on tuning in from wherever I am.