"This is Kate. She's from Australia. She just hitchhiked here and was attacked by a dog." The dark-haired goddess said to the table filled with women that I had never met.
Each fragment of her statement was true, just not in that order. I am Kate. I am from Australia. But, I didn't hitchhike from Australia to Tuscany, although that would have been something I could have spent the next few days writing about. I'd hitched a ride from the nearest town of San Gimmy - shortened from San Gimingnano because Aussies abbreviate just about everything. What had happened was that the hostel in Pisa messed up and told me that I could get a bus from some end-of-the-line, butt-fuck nowhere station to San Gimmy when, in fact, I couldn't. Luckily, I found a couple that agreed to share a "taxi", otherwise known as a local in an unmarked car preying on tourists, and I sure as shit wasn't getting in one of those alone.
Being me, and dressed like a teenage mutant ninja turtle with my 15kg rucksack, I had figured I would walk the remaining seven kilometres to the farmhouse from San Gimmy. I reckon I got about 100 metres before sticking my thumb out.
In my pigeon Italian and with almost as many hand gestures as the average Italian, my driver and saviour wanted to join the retreat in the two minutes it took to arrive. I quickly said thanks and left her with Regina.
Regina was also right about the dog attack, but it didn't happen on the 100 metre walk and two minute drive. It happened in a Belgian backyard about six weeks earlier, but I was still wearing a bandage to protect the newly forming scars from the sunlight. This is a familiar story to many of my friends and family, and to some of you WOWers.
In short, I was bitten twice by a golden retriever; once on my elbow and once on my ribs. I got seven stitches while Benji just got put down. For some reason, even though I was travelling for a whole year, this attack (along with the retreat of course) was a highlight. Although, I don't go around saying this because, well, that shit just sounds masochistic and let's-stay-away-from-her level of weird.
In the immediate weeks after the attack, I hit my lowest point; one of the lowest of my life. I couldn't wash my hair. I had to learn to brush my teeth and wipe my arse with my left hand - obviously not at the same time! I couldn't write about it and most of the time I couldn't even talk to anyone at home because of the time difference. All the while still living in the house of Benji's owners.
Before I had begun the trip eight months earlier, without the much of a plan, I felt privileged and loathed the spoilt manner from which my fellow citizens could act or speak. I wanted to tear away every layer that I had grown up believing, imposed by a culture without thought. I wanted to cut the skin away from my own flesh like separating the thick hide layer from a leg of ham.
But, here all I really needed was a dog.