an ambivalent homecoming

living in other countries is a blessing and a curse. i don't regret a moment of it and i wouldn't give it up for anything, but it's painful nevertheless. my roots are sinking in, every time i move i leave a piece of myself and no matter where i am i never feel wholly at home.

i've gotten attatched to these streets, my ankles are used to wobbling on ancient uneven stone and i can walk the rhythm of the beeping crosswalk signs, the metallic ring of hurried cyclers, the roar of bus engines and the familiar monotone of the danish tongue.

i'll miss the bright buttery light of warm bakeries.
the curt nod of the bus driver as i flash my pass.
the good natured limping green grocer who only spoke danish.
the patient silent lines in fakta at five o'clock, putting the divider in place for the next person.
legs and arms bared and spread in all the parks to welcome sunshine long awaited.
basking in dazed reverie by the lake in christiania.

equally i'm anticipating the return to the homeland.
at the core of me i've terribly missed my family. more than i ever thought i would. i miss cheap coffee and raul's empanada town and effortless conversation and the comforting vastness of new york and although it guilts me i miss driving. i know i'll miss not driving when i return.

but i wouldn't have it any other way. the sentiments are balanced, and equally sincere. and copenhagen, i'll be back someday.

i'm goin

the spiny evergreens are powdered with fat snowflakes

the snow of two days ago was kosher salt pelting woolen shoulders, pebbles bouncing on soft soil or exploding against sandstone.

these mountains used to be at the bottom of the ocean. as the water gave way to a new era, the floor of the sea dried and cracked and melted away into monstrous alien pillars poking out of the valleys of Bohemian Paradise.

our czech guide, mischa, has short yellow hair twisted into a spiky knot at the back, straight panels in front hanging over her ears. her pale eyes always look like they've been crying, maybe from laughter. her wide smiling mouth rests on a pointy chin. her voice is sensual, warm and intimately she rolls her tongue over her words. her face is innocent, the way her eyebrows are always lifted. the slight sag in the rear of her pants and the outward flare of her brown sweater are charming.

today's snow is a constant. none of the faltering of the previous days. it falls heavily, many flakes forming teams and dropping together in fat clumps. the resistance of the world beneath the white blanket is waning. more is hidden until every flaw is masked by a smooth and simple blinding white. it's relentless but gentle. its softness can be compacted to a dangerous slickness. smooth and silky enough to slide across with terrifying ease. especially a heavy gray tourist bus coated in grime and full of american students.

the bus slid easily across the narrow way. it would have kept sliding but for the tree it caught in the midsection. the window became a crackling web of plexiglass and the girl below it screamed, then immediately apologized for screaming. everyone reached for their cameras.

we became a horde not contained within the walls of the bus, a sprawling, slipping mass of colors and bottles and backpacks, squeals and laughs and complaints. down the mountain we went. the snow was no longer magical. it clung to the soft fibers of my wool coat, created a cap of a blonde girl's rounded bangs.

now in the train station waiting room, seven feet by fifteen, the red rubber floor streaked with mud and melted snow, we sit and stand, open and close the door. it's 10 AM. we open the bottles we were saving for the bus ride home. we take out snacks and put them away and take them out again. everyone asks each other the same questions. we're about to catch the first of the two trains passing through the town today.

and now that we're done walking through it, of course, the blizzard has ceased and the sun is shining mockingly.

Cesky Raj

tuesday's snow was an adolescent snow pimpled by the unfrozen soil, grass poking through like unfamiliar stubble

this countryside is narrow roads winding through open fields and past villages of neatly clustered colored houses centered around a tall yellow bell tower with a stern black clockface

the bus fairly barrels down the straight stretches of black pavement

a girl behind me said, 'we've had so many beautiful moments, but they're just so fleeting. it's really kind of sad. I guess pictures capture something, but it's not enough.'

i felt a sweet-sick lurch of excitement in my gut as I know i hold the answer to this problem - being able to write, to capture those moments in a way nothing else can suffice.

First Glimpse of Tjekkiet

-a headless bird on the path
-a broken plastic cup
-a blue kerchief fluttering in the bare branches of a birch tree
-sausages bobbing in yellowish water over a sterno flame
-large glass pitchers of whole milk
-servers in unbuttoned black vests, kneeling to sweep crumbs into tin dustpans
-banging stall doors and shallow toilets
-a blonde woman in a red sweater, leaning on the railing of her top floor balcony, smoking and squinting down at the young Americans laughing and dragging their bursting bags

The Ferry

It's very clean and modern, with blue rubber mats for the deck, blonde wooden tables and bright plastic chairs. This is, I suppose, my first time at sea. Unless you count the Staten Island Ferry. It's strange to be on board this monstrous nautical mass of steel and plastic and glass, somehow accommodating buses and trains and cars and young Danes in matching hoodies, drinking beer and fiske liquor before noon, elderly couples gazing placidly out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the 'Panorama Cafe,' at least a hundred American students, coolers full of ice cream, a cafeteria and white deck chairs bolted to the floor. And yet it floats, rolling and rumbling across the surface of the sea, creating white froth, leaving dying mermaids in its wake.

It's brimming with joviality, pensiveness, hope, loneliness, hunger, stomach trembling with anticipation, mouths chewing small and meaningless words, eyes squinting in the wind and widening to drink in all the waters of the Baltic Sea.

The Belleville Market

This place was an arrest on all senses. There were piles of polka dotted canvas shoes, lacy bras, toy guns. Heaps of scarves and polyester dresses in florals and stripes. Fish rested on chipped ice, their faces shocked with round eyes and gaping mouths. They smelled fresh from the sea, their scales and fins beautifully intact. From every direction it was, 'Bonjour, mademoiselle!' and whistles and kisses and pleads to take a look, take a taste of my fruit, mademoiselle. Neat pyramids of spice, red and yellow powders, brown seeds and black pods scooped up by silver trowels. Velvet scrunchies, plastic jewelry, discount batteries, shiny candy. Beautiful, brilliant rubbish. The tang scent of olives, a rabbit carcass stretched lean across a wooden board, jumping at each blow of the heavy cleaver. A kilometer of shouts in the shade, euros dropped into rough palms, cameras and confusion, hands slapping their goods to demonstrate the quality, fruit sweetening in the sun. An hour slipped past and I emerged bearing cheaply won treasures, sweet almond paste and a flowery scarf smelling of ink and Indian cotton. Oh yes, the rest of the world exists. But I could lose myself beneath the swathes of canvas, between the narrow counters, looking, smelling, tasting, touching, listening, breathing.