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What time is it my love? When I listen to Manu Chao's song: Me gustas tu, I am taken back to Venice, summer 2017. His music would become the thread of my dissertation and a source of healing. As the daughter of a Dominican migrant, my mother's code hoovered over me: try to not leave the house without a purpose. My solo trip to Venice and (more European cities) already after studying abroad in Vienna was a big fear for her. But you see, it was inevitable that I would come to discover Manu Chao. On an overnight train from Vienna, I shared a compartment with a couple and an older man. I wore, top to bottom, heavy denim and was the last to fall asleep. Nine hours later, I arrived at Venice Mestre. I stretched my long body, reached for my brown hiker boots, and secure my braids. I unfolded a map where I detailed key directions. This didn't have to be an Atlantis trip, but since I stubbornly opted for no mobile service, this was my option. Not, a problem though, I am visualizer I said. After identifying the correct turn from the four roundabout exits, and patiently guiding myself with the help of locals, I finally found the mustard coloured hostel. I indulged in the local pizza and sat in a cafe to work while Katy Perry's Bon Appetite song looped from the cable TV. The strangest event came in the evening. My host, who was inside a vacant room, hissed in a tongue-tied fashion, as if in conversation mode. I realized how the convention of a tourist hub is still a part of the private and every day. There was nothing to be afraid of, so I shrugged off the sound and finished typing my term paper. The next morning, I was curious... what peculiar events will ensue today? I took the bus to Venice Island. All of the locals wore air circulating summer clothes. Surely, my large denim made a statement. While I still wore my armor, I was determined to not be too cautious. Tourists dragged their suitcases, hung to their phones, and followed their guides intendedly. There, in my heavy denim, I suddenly felt light. Often, I would pause to remove my green sandals and jacket, rejoicing in the smells of the canals, drawing the Rialto Bridge with my jacket as a pillow. I found myself in sand-colored alleys and silent dead zones that all seemed out of reach. Surprisingly, this drifting made everything more present and more pronounced in my mental map. Day three, I pursued the outskirts of Dorsoduro. To my right was a line of small and quiet restaurants. The people blended into the hood of the large terrace umbrellas. As I passed the last restaurant, a very warm waiter in his sixties asked if I could help him take a picture of his table. "Pretty girl, please help me take this photo of the boys," he said with the largest smile. "Gladly" I replied. I walked over and snapped a picture of the cheerful gang who were all around my age. I returned the disposable camera, prepared to say goodbye- "Please join us" they said. So I did. The waiter heartily gifted me a generous piece of lasagna and suddenly I was introducing myself to strangers. Like myself, they were from the USA. One of them, Chris, is Mexican-American who just completed his pottery course. The other two were from Hawaii. Before they left, Chris and I made a doodle together. We bonded over being both Latino and an artist. He mentioned a Manu Chao concert he recently attended and was shocked I didn't know who he was- so he played Me gustas tu. The song was witty, free, and daring, everything I wanted to be. The gang left and I thanked the waiter for this pleasant memory. I noted Manu's name in my mini notebook and continued further into Dorsoduro humming the first verse: What time is it my love?