WELCOME

[ILSE DIETER ENGEL]

Amserdam, May 1997; (Ilse is 22, Marianna is 13.)

ILSE: I've materialized into the late nineties, into Marianna's home street in Amsterdam. She had seen me coming and after a few moments brought out some clothing for me to wear. I give her a small thanks and she nods, covering her eyes while I pull on the jean shorts and t-shirt she has brought me. A few moments later we are walking peacefully down the streets of Amsterdam and she points to the bridge with an excited look on her face. I nod and follow her as she climbs onto the bridge, balancing precariously above the water. I wince, slightly unnerved by her dangerous position and she laughs at my caution. Little does she know that she ends up being the one to teach me such responsibility. But she is young now and hasn't gone through that transformation yet.

Marianna sits next to me at the edge of the stone bridge, swinging her legs and swaying back and forth in a way that makes me think she might fall off at any minute. She sees my worry and smiles softly with all of the wisdom of someone three times her age, and reaches her hand over to mine, giving it a small pat. "It's okay, Ilse. I'm okay, trust me." With her sage advice I roll my eyes, I know she's fine, and obviously she hasn't died at age thirteen in my future, so I know that she will be fine. But it's worrisome to me, and I often wonder if it is possible for something to change my future on accident. One slip. That's all it would take... I shudder at the thought and as though she can read my mind, she stops moving and sits still with a serene look on her pretty features.

The tulips wave gently in the cool spring breeze and Marianna sneezes. I grin and remember her allergies. "Lots of pollen this time of year, huh?" Marianna narrows her eyes at my teasing remark and sticks out her tongue, "Kutwijf!" She says, testing my urban dutch. I know enough to deduce that she has just called me a bitch and give her a scornful look. "Let op uw taal," I return, telling her to watch her language. She regards me with a wary smirk, knowing full well that I don't actually care, but still wishing to push my buttons regardless. I forgive her, because I know where she is in her life right now. Marianna's told me a lot about herself when she was younger, that she hated authority, anything to do with the police, or her parents, she wanted nothing to do with any of it. According to various sources (her mother, random people from her school I've run into), she was also, apparently, quite a troublemaker around town. The things I've learned from others explains a lot of my interactions with her today; the way she avoids my questions, waves away my skeptical brow, and sometimes just plain ignores me.

Twirling a strand of her long, wavy brown hair she looks out onto the sea and speaks, "Do you think there's a heaven?" Her german is rough and I sigh, remembering that she's decidedly atheistic at this point in her life. "I don't know," I respond in dutch, making it easier for her to converse. Marianna throws me an angry glance and I repeat it in German. I forget that she wants me to help improve her German. Shrugging, she turns and hops lightly onto the bridge as a car rolls by, fluttering her summer dress just so in the wind. I look back out onto the sea once more with a sense of longing and say softly to the sun, "Ich weiß nicht..."

I've often pondered the possibilities of there being a heaven, but have resigned myself to believing that there is just nowhere people go besides the ground when they die. It's a depressing thought, but I can't think of anything else that makes much sense. Running my hand along my temple and brush a rebellious strand of blonde hair from my forehead, I slide off the bridge and begin to follow Marianna as she walks down the bridge towards her home. My stomach does a few flip-flops and I clutch my gut, pain written across my face. I need to run out of sight immediately. Marianna looks behind her, catches my gaze and understands immediately. Grabbing my hand, she pulls me towards a nearby cafe and we push through clouds of smoke and stoned patrons to their small bathroom in the back. She shoves me into the tiny room and I turn to the toilet, drop to my knees and a moment later I am gone.

---

Paris, May 2008; (Ilse is 22)

ILSE: The smell of Parisian streets overpowers me as I find myself somewhere new and I groan. I'm in public; and naked. Utterly and completely naked. This rarely happens to me as I usually have the good sense to figure out when I'm going to dissipate into thin air, but I had been admiring the Eiffel Tower this time, pushing charcoal pencils across a thick sketchbook with such intense fury that I did not even notice when time had its way with me. Ducking behind a particularly prominent shrub I look around for my left-behind clothes and sketchbook. I start to freak out as the distinct lack of them becomes clear and I hang my head low in shame, resigned to the fact that I'll have to poke around the Champs-Élysées nude for a bit. It's a bit annoying to have clothes stolen, especially since I wasn't even gone that long, but it isn't the first time this has happened. For some reason, people just seem to like to grab clothing they find behind bushes, despite the fact that they don't even know who the clothes belong to. Ah well, I sigh, feeling a bit better at the thought that perhaps some poor gypsy has them and is now able to have a better life for it. And it's not like I'm a maverick at being naked in public places; I've learned to get over the nudity by this point in my time-traveling career. Luckily, I am partially hidden by the pitch black of midnight and I manage to break into a clothing store with just a paperclip and other various objects I picked up whilst sneaking around the sidestreets and alleyways of Paris, all but avoiding the main street; the Champs-Élysées.

I pull an obnoxiously golden frock from a clearance rack, partially justifying my acts of deviance, and dress myself quickly and searching the place for shoes I could possibly wear. It doesn't matter much whether or not I find them, but I manage to spot a cute pair of heels that go perfectly with the dress that I'm wearing. All justification lost at this point I accept that sometimes I need to break a few rules. "This isn't permanent," I say to myself, and vow to fold these neatly and send them back once I get back to the safety of my home. "But, since I've got them..." I leave the store quietly and strut down the Champs-Élysées, eying several clubs on my way.

After a few troubled thoughts, my conscience tugs at my feet and pull me back towards the Eiffel Tower whereupon I find my sketchbook and charcoals, left haphazardly strewn across the tiny lawn under the Eiffel Tower. I scurry to retrieve my pencils and collect them with my sketchbook, sitting down with all the intent of finishing my piece. It's a striking piece looking straight up into the heart of the Tower and I smile at it, more than just a bit impressed at my artistic abilities. i rarely brag, but I like the things I do end up producing with certain art mediums. I'm dismal at watercolors, but I've always held a special place for charcoals and pencil in my heart. I set a determined look upon my brow and summarily go on to finish my piece, glancing up every few seconds to look up at the Tower, shining splendidly in the night sky.

I place my sketchbook next to me after the art leaves my soul and I sit calmly under the Tower, happy to be back in the present. I love visiting Marianna, but sometimes our meetings tend to have little purpose and I have to think about them for a while sometimes before they begin to make sense. The Bible had been on my bedstand these past few nights, and stories from Biblical times have been lingering in my mind, and I wonder if that has had something to do with this particular visit. It was shorter than most- less than a few hours. Two at the most. A cool breeze sweeps through the streets of Paris and I close my eyes, rubbing my arms with a shiver. If I stay too long I fear that I might be caught in a light drizzle and bite my lip nervously. I hadn't thought to grab an overcoat of any kind and I wonder if it's possible that the nice, theoretical gypsy family has left behind my parka. A frown crosses my features as I realize that is probably the first thing they'd take.

The sounds of a crowd reaches my ears and I turn my head warily to see a gaggle of young girls- most likely touring the hopping club scene. My educated guess proves right as hoots of laughter emit the boys mouths and I see the girls swaying in the breeze, drunk out of their minds. I let out a tiny laugh to myself, thinking on my own indiscretions. If I hadn't jumped time when I did, I might have ended up tagging along with those girls tonight, but no, probably not, I decide after a second of thought. I had prepared to go out and sketch, club-hopping wasn't on the menu quite yet.

[NATHALIE ISABELLE PIERPONT]

[[I tis bored. Would you mind if I join?]]