gringa en sampa :: on the tower

"Fuk. AH...Tom, I'm scared of heights," I stammer. & it's a little late to confess this standing 20 feet off the ground atop a steep hill mountain. Tom shrugs nonchalantly. "Maybe you can overcome it... the view is really beautiful, you know..." and pulls up the ladder, swinging his hips back and forth to prove his point.

I feel stupid still and crawl down to the lowest crossbar while Tom and Jack chat to each other in Polish, but! alone I can be as dorky as I wish, swinging my legs over the edge and pointing my toes down at the valley below. Tom told me, I think, that the train below almost killed him as a kid, and I have this abrupt image pop into my head of him running in a gaucho outfit through a tunnel with big buggy cartoon eyes and I laugh. I forget that I'm on the edge of a plummeting death and look down and see the valley of eucalyptus trees waving and lean back and kick my feet out at the sky.

Fucking toxic glow from Sao Paulo lights up everything at once and nothing is quite real. When we climb down my butt is yellow-dirty and Jack sneers, "The view was better up there!" and I feel so embarrassed that I blush roses. The more you try to pretend you aren't afraid, the more obvious they come out to kick you in the butt.