Tales From The Treehouse
A Word on the Lure of the Vespa and The Power of Dreams
So you thought I’d balk at writing about Vespas? How extraordinairy and au contraire, ma Cherie! And to make my point, I need only share with you a now obscure blog I wrote many moons ago, if not in a faraway land, though some would consider Texas just that, so let’s say a…distant, land.
I named it, most succinctly, sincerely and to the point: I Want A Vespa...
I want a Vespa. There, I said it. I want a Vespa and by Golly, one day, I shall have one. Why do I want a Vespa? Hmmm......this may be one of those times when if you have to ask why, I can't explain it to you. But I will try.
I want a Vespa because it looks fun to ride. To ride with the wind in my hair and freedom at the tip of my fingers, measured in horsepower released with the flick of a wrist. And come to think of it, because a girl looks cute on a Vespa, as in Italian and cute. A six foot girl does not often get to look or feel cute, that is reserved for the petite among us. I would ride my Vespa in a pretty cotton dress with a long, silken, sheer scarf wrapped around my neck to fly out behind me, fluttering and undulating in exquisite and poetic grace. I would ride my Vespa wherever it would take me, up hills, down valleys, through town and home again. I would ride my Vespa through the Starbucks drive-in (my Vespa would have a cupholder) and after a delicious sip of my hot chocolate and a heartfelt sigh, I would rev that little sucker up and let her rip down some country road.
I've always wanted a Vespa. It's just recently, I've rediscovered the notion. Something I saw or read triggered a memory of a young girl madly in love and riding a scooter in the dark of night, arms wrapped around the object of her affection, giggling madly as he daringly turned off the lights on a long stretch of country road, the better to enjoy and drive by the light of a full moon. Ever since, that young girl has known she had to, one day, have a Vespa. Driver need not be included. I'll drive my own damn Vespa, thank you very much. I guess, technically, the term is ride. The sentiment remains the same.
There is nothing practical about this notion. Riding a Vespa down our half mile long driveway, all rocks and holes and dips and bumps is not necessarily an appealing thought. So I stop short of thinking it. You know I'd find a way. Riding a cute little machine down narrow Texas roads brimming with one tonne trucks with speed limits more suited to a german freeway borders on the suicidal. I am not suicidal - how can anyone with a Vespa be suicidal? That's like an oxymoron of sorts. So I know I would survive somehow. We'd float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, my Vespa and me. Then there are the bugs. From April through November I could count on a mouthful of extra protein for every mile driven. So I won't smile, however much I want to grin from ear to shining ear. I'll look cute AND mysterious. Maybe I'll get some of those huge, bug eyed sunglasses to go with my scarf.
No, there is nothing practical about this notion. It's a dream. Nothing but a dream, but oh, the power of dreams. The power to make us smile, laugh, relax, sigh, fill our eyes with hope and the light of unlimited possibilities sparking in our slumbering brains. The power to flood our blood with joy and glee at the very thought of the possibility that the dream could come true, what it would mean, how it would change us, our life, our purpose. The power of dreams, so potent as to shape us even as we shape them.....a reciprocal exchange of power that in the end, may manifest just about, well, anything.
Maybe even a Vespa.
So you see, writing about Vespas is right up my cobblestone street, billowing scarves and all,
Till next time,