"Oh yes," Lilah smiles. "The travelers' disease. First diagnosed by Shakespeare, I believe. Specifically Rosalind."
Amateur theatrics had been a hobby since high school -- everyone said acting improved your debate skills -- and the women's college, had a particular fondness for the cross-dressing comedies.
"'Traveller:, look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.'"
She smiles, to let him know they are both in the same gondola. "I spent almost a year in Italy, when I was studying art. I wrote an honors thesis on Caravaggio to prove it. It's a very poor thesis," she adds, "as I was a bit caught up in all wine, women, and song or -- the appropriate equivalents."
The equivalents here in this case shopping, fucking (women and men), and -- this being the '80s, if only the tail end -- copious amounts of very good cocaine. As for the thesis, her statement was, as Sloane might suspect, a statement of false modesty, but only of a sort. She thought it was probably a pretty good thesis, but, only becaue she had a allowed a smitten English art historian to write it for her, while she got high with a houseboy.
"Lovely country," she smiles, and means it. The nostalgia disease again. I must be getting sentimental in my death. She idly wonders if she should relocate to Rome; she imagines the differently alive community in that city must be thriving indeed. Though she has also heard a rumor of its being infested by vampire slayers and their paramours.
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Amateur theatrics had been a hobby since high school -- everyone said acting improved your debate skills -- and the women's college, had a particular fondness for the cross-dressing comedies.
"'Traveller:, look you lisp and wear strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.'"
She smiles, to let him know they are both in the same gondola. "I spent almost a year in Italy, when I was studying art. I wrote an honors thesis on Caravaggio to prove it. It's a very poor thesis," she adds, "as I was a bit caught up in all wine, women, and song or -- the appropriate equivalents."
The equivalents here in this case shopping, fucking (women and men), and -- this being the '80s, if only the tail end -- copious amounts of very good cocaine. As for the thesis, her statement was, as Sloane might suspect, a statement of false modesty, but only of a sort. She thought it was probably a pretty good thesis, but, only becaue she had a allowed a smitten English art historian to write it for her, while she got high with a houseboy.
"Lovely country," she smiles, and means it. The nostalgia disease again. I must be getting sentimental in my death. She idly wonders if she should relocate to Rome; she imagines the differently alive community in that city must be thriving indeed. Though she has also heard a rumor of its being infested by vampire slayers and their paramours.