Little Letters from Abroad
This winter, I bid you goodbye, if only for a short while. I've been writing you letters...
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Table of Contents
If you read this blog from starting at the top of the page, you will be travelling back in time. Although it might be charming, you might want to travel to some specific moments. So, here's an index, like a map, sort of.
December 26-January 3: Brussels, Belgium.
January 4, 5: Accra, Ghana
January 8- 11: Togo (Kpalime and Lome)
January 13- 17: Ghana (Mole, Wechiau, Busua)
January 20- 24: Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
January 26: Ghana
January 31- February 4: Bratislava, Slovakia
February 6- 11: Berlin, Germany
February 13: The last letter
December 26-January 3: Brussels, Belgium.
January 4, 5: Accra, Ghana
January 8- 11: Togo (Kpalime and Lome)
January 13- 17: Ghana (Mole, Wechiau, Busua)
January 20- 24: Abidjan, Cote d'Ivoire
January 26: Ghana
January 31- February 4: Bratislava, Slovakia
February 6- 11: Berlin, Germany
February 13: The last letter
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
February 13, 2011: The Last Little Letter
We illuminated tiny Austrian towns with our headlights this morning, speeding through the country side on the way to the airport.
I sat next to the gray haired man with kind eyes on the flight to Toronto. His name was Jobran. Shortly after take-off he turned to me and said, "I prayed to God that I would sit next to a blonde woman on the plane today." We got to talking after the fasten seat belt sign had been switched off. He was returning from business in Cameroon, he said. Finding some common ground in African travel, I asked his impressions and business. He told me how he had once owned diamond mines, but that he'd lost them in a bad business deal and now brokered fine African wood for furniture manufacturing. He told me all about the best way to make money in Africa: buy construction equipment in Canada, ship it over and rent it out. Very lucrative, apparently. I told him to invest in coltan. We compared emigrant experiences: he said Canada was a fine country, "But, it is like a dish made with good ingredients, but lacking in salt." I convinced him to watch The Town on his movie screen, but he turned it off 10 minutes in, claiming it was boring. He reminisced about the days when you could smoke on planes and repeatedly turned to me throughout the course of the flight, bringing his hand to his mouth, pretending to inhale and then leaning back in his seat and exhaling with a look of satisfaction on his face.
We talked more business. I asked him to take me under his wing and give me an 'in' into the cocoa industry, but he refused, saying he could tell I didn't have a head for business. When I asked him how he could tell, he said that he had looked at my hands. Since the tip of my baby finger does not reach up to the second joint on my ring finger, I am lost cause in the business-head department.
In the customs line, Jobran asked the man managing the cordons if he could bribe him to get to the front of the line. "It works in Africa", he said. I laughed.
We claimed our respective baggage and said goodbye at the carrousel.
And that was that.
And here I am, home at last.
And so, this is the last letter. I hardly know how to end! Really, I'd just like to say thanks for being my constant companion and confidant, I hope these letters have given you a little window into, a miniature painting of, these glorious past weeks.
I sat next to the gray haired man with kind eyes on the flight to Toronto. His name was Jobran. Shortly after take-off he turned to me and said, "I prayed to God that I would sit next to a blonde woman on the plane today." We got to talking after the fasten seat belt sign had been switched off. He was returning from business in Cameroon, he said. Finding some common ground in African travel, I asked his impressions and business. He told me how he had once owned diamond mines, but that he'd lost them in a bad business deal and now brokered fine African wood for furniture manufacturing. He told me all about the best way to make money in Africa: buy construction equipment in Canada, ship it over and rent it out. Very lucrative, apparently. I told him to invest in coltan. We compared emigrant experiences: he said Canada was a fine country, "But, it is like a dish made with good ingredients, but lacking in salt." I convinced him to watch The Town on his movie screen, but he turned it off 10 minutes in, claiming it was boring. He reminisced about the days when you could smoke on planes and repeatedly turned to me throughout the course of the flight, bringing his hand to his mouth, pretending to inhale and then leaning back in his seat and exhaling with a look of satisfaction on his face.
We talked more business. I asked him to take me under his wing and give me an 'in' into the cocoa industry, but he refused, saying he could tell I didn't have a head for business. When I asked him how he could tell, he said that he had looked at my hands. Since the tip of my baby finger does not reach up to the second joint on my ring finger, I am lost cause in the business-head department.
In the customs line, Jobran asked the man managing the cordons if he could bribe him to get to the front of the line. "It works in Africa", he said. I laughed.
We claimed our respective baggage and said goodbye at the carrousel.
And that was that.
And here I am, home at last.
And so, this is the last letter. I hardly know how to end! Really, I'd just like to say thanks for being my constant companion and confidant, I hope these letters have given you a little window into, a miniature painting of, these glorious past weeks.
Yours,
Dominika
Monday, February 14, 2011
February 12, 2011: Back in the Brat
A few more days and I'm home again.
Last night, we watched a film my grandfather made in the 1960's called Kym sa Skonci Tato Noc (Which translates roughly into Until This Night is Over). It takes place at a resort town in the mountains and is a little social study of the guests at a hotel, the staff and the locals. Really sweet, funny and interesting, the dialogue is mostly improvised. I think it would have been part of what is considered the Czech/Slovak New Wave. It was neat watching it with Grandpa, as he recounted shooting it, and all of the pleasure and stress that goes along with that.
After the movie my grandmother brought out some glasses and a bottle of champagne and my grandfather opened the bottle with flair and a pop and poured us each a glass. We watched celebration and elation in the streets of Egypt and we all thought aloud and wondered at it, what a world!
The next day, my cousin Janko and I went to my maternal grandmother's for lunch, after which Janko drove her to the supermarket so she could stock up on milk and get the fish that was on special. His car had been making some strange noises for the past few days and as we drove down the street we heard the sudden and persistent scrape of metal against concrete. After stopping the car and investigating, Janko discovered part of the exhaust system had rusted and broken and was scraping against the road. We pulled over and called his dad's girlfriend who so graciously lent us her car instead. We managed to get the grandmother and the fish home, too.
Did I tell you that Janko plays guitar and sings in a punk rock band? More technically, it's a metalcore band with a screamer singer and some seriously dirty guitar and very heart-shaking bass and drum combination. Though I'm usually not very interested in this kind of music, when it's live, it's a different story. Janko took me to Drama Queen's practice space, for a little jam session between drummer and guitarist. They rocked out for a good while.
After practice we went on to Pezinok, where my cousin Kajo and his wife Sona and their two little children live. When we arrived, the kids were drawing dinosaurs and kittens on the kitchen wall, which was going to be repainted the following week. Both darlings were flushed with excitement and also spotted with the last vestiges of a recent battle with chicken pox. Turns out that Janko had never had chicken pox and was in danger of contracting the dreaded virus. Apparently, this is the sort of thing that is much easier to have in childhood, but is important to have at some point in your life because it's harder to deal with as you age. In a vain attempt to lessen the chances of Janko contracting the pox, he borrowed a handkerchief from Kajo, folded it into a blue triangle and tied it around his face. Though I have my doubts as to its effectiveness, his mask was certainly very humorous for adults and children alike, especially when he had to lift the flap to eat and drink and also when he played an expressionless game of table tennis, without the table.
Tomorrow, I fly back to Toronto. Back to loving arms and cold streets, bicycles and urban wilderness and the politics and prose of On-tar-i-o. I'll miss it here, for sure.
Last night, we watched a film my grandfather made in the 1960's called Kym sa Skonci Tato Noc (Which translates roughly into Until This Night is Over). It takes place at a resort town in the mountains and is a little social study of the guests at a hotel, the staff and the locals. Really sweet, funny and interesting, the dialogue is mostly improvised. I think it would have been part of what is considered the Czech/Slovak New Wave. It was neat watching it with Grandpa, as he recounted shooting it, and all of the pleasure and stress that goes along with that.
After the movie my grandmother brought out some glasses and a bottle of champagne and my grandfather opened the bottle with flair and a pop and poured us each a glass. We watched celebration and elation in the streets of Egypt and we all thought aloud and wondered at it, what a world!
The next day, my cousin Janko and I went to my maternal grandmother's for lunch, after which Janko drove her to the supermarket so she could stock up on milk and get the fish that was on special. His car had been making some strange noises for the past few days and as we drove down the street we heard the sudden and persistent scrape of metal against concrete. After stopping the car and investigating, Janko discovered part of the exhaust system had rusted and broken and was scraping against the road. We pulled over and called his dad's girlfriend who so graciously lent us her car instead. We managed to get the grandmother and the fish home, too.
Did I tell you that Janko plays guitar and sings in a punk rock band? More technically, it's a metalcore band with a screamer singer and some seriously dirty guitar and very heart-shaking bass and drum combination. Though I'm usually not very interested in this kind of music, when it's live, it's a different story. Janko took me to Drama Queen's practice space, for a little jam session between drummer and guitarist. They rocked out for a good while.
After practice we went on to Pezinok, where my cousin Kajo and his wife Sona and their two little children live. When we arrived, the kids were drawing dinosaurs and kittens on the kitchen wall, which was going to be repainted the following week. Both darlings were flushed with excitement and also spotted with the last vestiges of a recent battle with chicken pox. Turns out that Janko had never had chicken pox and was in danger of contracting the dreaded virus. Apparently, this is the sort of thing that is much easier to have in childhood, but is important to have at some point in your life because it's harder to deal with as you age. In a vain attempt to lessen the chances of Janko contracting the pox, he borrowed a handkerchief from Kajo, folded it into a blue triangle and tied it around his face. Though I have my doubts as to its effectiveness, his mask was certainly very humorous for adults and children alike, especially when he had to lift the flap to eat and drink and also when he played an expressionless game of table tennis, without the table.
Tomorrow, I fly back to Toronto. Back to loving arms and cold streets, bicycles and urban wilderness and the politics and prose of On-tar-i-o. I'll miss it here, for sure.
February 11, 2011: Berlin, Bitte!
It was busy in Berlin! I have so much to tell you. Ok, I won't tell you everything, but here are some excerpts from my field notes.
First, let me say Hilda was a most gracious, fiercely funny and resourceful hostess, a fine semi-colon of a girl; I <3 hh.
On Monday afternoon, I went swimming at the public pool. Did you know that one of my favourite things to do when I visit a city is to take a swim in a public pool? The pool I visited in Berlin was a gorgeous complex built between the two World Wars. The grand staircase was tiled in jade tiles, with a dark wood floor and benches of the same colour. The pool itself was oblong, rounded at one end, with massive columns, jade tiles and large mosaics showing people engaging in water themed activities. There was a mezzanine that looked down on to the main pool. At one end of the pool there was a curved staircase flanked by two brass sculptures of babies mounted on giant walruses that spouted water from their mouths.
Are public pools a reflection of the collective consciousness of a city? I tend to think so. In France, the lanes are very narrow and the water very cold, in Toronto the lanes are very wide and the water is piss warm. In Berlin, there are no lanes and the water is just right. I felt like Goldilocks. Admittedly, it was somewhat chaotic in the pool. People were swimming back and forth willy nilly.
I had a nice long swim and only bumped into a few people, most of whom were quite gracious and understanding about the whole thing. Interestingly, there was also a tanning station at the pool where you could drop in a few Euros and get a little UV.
We went for a fine dinner along the canal at a place called Cafe Jaques (We tried to go to Henne, a famous chicken house, but alas, it was closed). Had a delicious meal with Hilda and her fine nostriled and fluttery-handed girlfriend Meeshell. They regaled me with stories of life in Berlin over dinner and we continued on to a nightclub for an evening of dancing, which we didn't end up doing that much of. They projected the movie Dirty Dancing behind the dance floor. All I can say is that Patrick Swayze was a handsome man, that is for sure. We got home rather late.
On Tuesday we went to the Turkish Market in Kreuzberg. It was festive and charming, with people selling all kind of things: food and fabric and nuts and flowers, et cetera. We took a long walk along the canal and exchanged various factoids and ideas (of which we are both great fans) and generally conversed in an agreeable manner.
We ate dinner at a Vietnamese place (so interesting to have German Pho, not so delicious as our Toronto Pho, you know). We tried to make it to a Sophia Coppola movie in the evening, but we were late and got the time all wrong and so went home instead and ate black liquorice. Earlier in the day, we had been to a store that sold solely this and little else. Sweet black liquorice, salty, with chocolate, pastilles... What an amazing place. Check it here
On Wednesday, I spent the morning doing a bit of a wander around the city, retracing some walks I'd liked. After a Turkish lunch (I discovered Turkish is one of my favorite cuisines in the world, I do believe), I went to the Medical History museum. It's a neat little place on the grounds of an old hospital called the Charite. The second floor of the museum was really macabre. Disembodied human parts were displayed in large glass cabinets, manifesting various unfortunate malformations or conditions. There were cancers, bladder stones the size of golf balls, giant hairballs retrieved from stomachs, hands with nubs instead of fingers, feet with elephantiasis, and unborn babies with missing parts or extra parts. There was quite an assortment of babies; two babies fused into one being and one baby with a quite, serene expression whose torso tapered off into a sort of point, not unlike 'Slimer' in the animated television serial 'Ghostbusters'. Weird.
Hilda met me at the train station to say goodbye and after a coffee and a run to the supermarket to get some more liquorice, we parted ways. Goodbye, dear friend!
Homeward bound! I got on the train and sat down in the couchette and read the last pages of "Freedom". My couchette mate boarded the train in Dresden, a charming Hungarian biochemist (the mate, not the city). The train stopped at Breclav in the early morning hours and I suppose the train's arrival coincided roughly with the closing of the local drinking establishments because the two parties of people who boarded our sleepy car were a little drunk and evidently a little sad to be leaving their friends behind. They kept calling out their farewells from the corridor. Following this, there was uncoupling and recouping of cars, some of which were going to Budapest and some of which were not. The announcement had to be made in three languages and the whole thing was rather disruptful. Anyway, I arrived in Bratislava and was so tired that I slept for basically a whole day and a night and woke the following morning feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time.
First, let me say Hilda was a most gracious, fiercely funny and resourceful hostess, a fine semi-colon of a girl; I <3 hh.
On Monday afternoon, I went swimming at the public pool. Did you know that one of my favourite things to do when I visit a city is to take a swim in a public pool? The pool I visited in Berlin was a gorgeous complex built between the two World Wars. The grand staircase was tiled in jade tiles, with a dark wood floor and benches of the same colour. The pool itself was oblong, rounded at one end, with massive columns, jade tiles and large mosaics showing people engaging in water themed activities. There was a mezzanine that looked down on to the main pool. At one end of the pool there was a curved staircase flanked by two brass sculptures of babies mounted on giant walruses that spouted water from their mouths.
Are public pools a reflection of the collective consciousness of a city? I tend to think so. In France, the lanes are very narrow and the water very cold, in Toronto the lanes are very wide and the water is piss warm. In Berlin, there are no lanes and the water is just right. I felt like Goldilocks. Admittedly, it was somewhat chaotic in the pool. People were swimming back and forth willy nilly.
I had a nice long swim and only bumped into a few people, most of whom were quite gracious and understanding about the whole thing. Interestingly, there was also a tanning station at the pool where you could drop in a few Euros and get a little UV.
We went for a fine dinner along the canal at a place called Cafe Jaques (We tried to go to Henne, a famous chicken house, but alas, it was closed). Had a delicious meal with Hilda and her fine nostriled and fluttery-handed girlfriend Meeshell. They regaled me with stories of life in Berlin over dinner and we continued on to a nightclub for an evening of dancing, which we didn't end up doing that much of. They projected the movie Dirty Dancing behind the dance floor. All I can say is that Patrick Swayze was a handsome man, that is for sure. We got home rather late.
On Tuesday we went to the Turkish Market in Kreuzberg. It was festive and charming, with people selling all kind of things: food and fabric and nuts and flowers, et cetera. We took a long walk along the canal and exchanged various factoids and ideas (of which we are both great fans) and generally conversed in an agreeable manner.
We ate dinner at a Vietnamese place (so interesting to have German Pho, not so delicious as our Toronto Pho, you know). We tried to make it to a Sophia Coppola movie in the evening, but we were late and got the time all wrong and so went home instead and ate black liquorice. Earlier in the day, we had been to a store that sold solely this and little else. Sweet black liquorice, salty, with chocolate, pastilles... What an amazing place. Check it here
On Wednesday, I spent the morning doing a bit of a wander around the city, retracing some walks I'd liked. After a Turkish lunch (I discovered Turkish is one of my favorite cuisines in the world, I do believe), I went to the Medical History museum. It's a neat little place on the grounds of an old hospital called the Charite. The second floor of the museum was really macabre. Disembodied human parts were displayed in large glass cabinets, manifesting various unfortunate malformations or conditions. There were cancers, bladder stones the size of golf balls, giant hairballs retrieved from stomachs, hands with nubs instead of fingers, feet with elephantiasis, and unborn babies with missing parts or extra parts. There was quite an assortment of babies; two babies fused into one being and one baby with a quite, serene expression whose torso tapered off into a sort of point, not unlike 'Slimer' in the animated television serial 'Ghostbusters'. Weird.
Hilda met me at the train station to say goodbye and after a coffee and a run to the supermarket to get some more liquorice, we parted ways. Goodbye, dear friend!
Homeward bound! I got on the train and sat down in the couchette and read the last pages of "Freedom". My couchette mate boarded the train in Dresden, a charming Hungarian biochemist (the mate, not the city). The train stopped at Breclav in the early morning hours and I suppose the train's arrival coincided roughly with the closing of the local drinking establishments because the two parties of people who boarded our sleepy car were a little drunk and evidently a little sad to be leaving their friends behind. They kept calling out their farewells from the corridor. Following this, there was uncoupling and recouping of cars, some of which were going to Budapest and some of which were not. The announcement had to be made in three languages and the whole thing was rather disruptful. Anyway, I arrived in Bratislava and was so tired that I slept for basically a whole day and a night and woke the following morning feeling more refreshed than I had in a long time.
February 6, 2011: The Night Train, Things in Berlin, Reunion
Waiting in Bratislava for the train last night, I decided to get a cup of tea from the Nescafe vending machine. I put in a Euro and chose my drink, adjusting the appropriate amount of sugar. The machine display then prompted me to select my drink again. Then, it asked me to adjust my sugar level again. Then, it prompted me to select my drink again. Suddenly, I realized I was caught in a seemingly endless cycle of selecting beverages and adjusting sugar levels. Behind me, a v. small man was cleaning the floors with a buffing machine, the cord of which was now snug against the back of my feet. I had failed to notice this since I was so involved with the selecting and adjusting. This man noted that my feet were interfering with his job, then noticed my visible agitation and came to help. After more selecting (to no avail), we both started hitting the machine, both in the front and at the sides, until the whole thing became absurd and it became apparent that I was not going to get my Euro back. Tea-less, but in high spirits, I got on the train and settled into my little couchette for the night.
This morning I woke up in Berlin. This is the best way to travel!
Berlin!
The Museum of Things was my Sunday destination. This little museum is actually an archive of the Deutsche Werkbund, which was an institution that was focused on "life reform" through control of the aesthetic practices and preferences of the German population (Ok, so maybe it was not quite as powerful as I'm suggesting). The museum displayed German industrial design in all its glory!
The Deutsche Werkbund worked to, among other things, establish guidelines that dictated good and bad taste. What should be deemed aesthetically pleasing and what should be deemed less so? They even went so far as to have a kind of 'kit' that was brought into schools to demonstrate what sort of manufactured products were in line with the national consciousness. So German, no? The whole point of the institution was to provide a sort of aesthetic ideology that was in line with the politics and social agenda of the time. Efficiency, good, functional design was promoted, and ornament and embellishment for its own sake was abhorred. Brilliant, I think.
Let me tell you, it was a spectacularily arranged history of Germany told through mass manufactured objects. I mean, we're used to telling our stories through objects, right? In a conventional 'museum' the uniqueness, rarity and age of the objects makes us see them as meaningful and valuable in themselves. Here, the selection and thematic arrangement of not so rare, everyday objects was a fascinating window into history and German consciousness.
As a collector of things, I was also very interested in the curation and organization of the collection. Perhaps because I've been struggling with deciding what to discard in my own personal collections, I fond myself thinking about whether there was someone still collecting contemporary objects that would be displayed in those very same cases some years down the road. What if I was throwing away our very history?! Should I hold on to my old matchboxes? I felt a twinge of regret for using all the napkins in my napkin collection one winter when I had that cold that would just not go away.
Anyway, the collection itself was organized both chronologically and thematically, with objects taking their places in large glass cabinets arranged in rows. Along one wall, in the thematic mode, there were groupings of amazing things, like old cell phones, tiny chairs (!), Mona Lisa Souveniers, plastic hamburgers, soap, adhesives, shaving brushes and things made of tin.
If you are in Berlin soon, I'd recommend it. A fun diversion.
Afterward, I went to a coffee shop to await Hilda, who was returning to from the countryside. We met and rejoiced over tasty kebabs. With glasses of tea, we started to start catching up after many years apart. A reunion as sweet as our beverages!
This morning I woke up in Berlin. This is the best way to travel!
Berlin!
The Museum of Things was my Sunday destination. This little museum is actually an archive of the Deutsche Werkbund, which was an institution that was focused on "life reform" through control of the aesthetic practices and preferences of the German population (Ok, so maybe it was not quite as powerful as I'm suggesting). The museum displayed German industrial design in all its glory!
The Deutsche Werkbund worked to, among other things, establish guidelines that dictated good and bad taste. What should be deemed aesthetically pleasing and what should be deemed less so? They even went so far as to have a kind of 'kit' that was brought into schools to demonstrate what sort of manufactured products were in line with the national consciousness. So German, no? The whole point of the institution was to provide a sort of aesthetic ideology that was in line with the politics and social agenda of the time. Efficiency, good, functional design was promoted, and ornament and embellishment for its own sake was abhorred. Brilliant, I think.
Let me tell you, it was a spectacularily arranged history of Germany told through mass manufactured objects. I mean, we're used to telling our stories through objects, right? In a conventional 'museum' the uniqueness, rarity and age of the objects makes us see them as meaningful and valuable in themselves. Here, the selection and thematic arrangement of not so rare, everyday objects was a fascinating window into history and German consciousness.
As a collector of things, I was also very interested in the curation and organization of the collection. Perhaps because I've been struggling with deciding what to discard in my own personal collections, I fond myself thinking about whether there was someone still collecting contemporary objects that would be displayed in those very same cases some years down the road. What if I was throwing away our very history?! Should I hold on to my old matchboxes? I felt a twinge of regret for using all the napkins in my napkin collection one winter when I had that cold that would just not go away.
Anyway, the collection itself was organized both chronologically and thematically, with objects taking their places in large glass cabinets arranged in rows. Along one wall, in the thematic mode, there were groupings of amazing things, like old cell phones, tiny chairs (!), Mona Lisa Souveniers, plastic hamburgers, soap, adhesives, shaving brushes and things made of tin.
If you are in Berlin soon, I'd recommend it. A fun diversion.
Afterward, I went to a coffee shop to await Hilda, who was returning to from the countryside. We met and rejoiced over tasty kebabs. With glasses of tea, we started to start catching up after many years apart. A reunion as sweet as our beverages!
February 4, 2011: Dancing, Constellations, Memories, Ice
I'm learning a little routine here in Bratislava. There's a morning dance we do, in my grandparents' kitchen, and I've memorized almost all the parts. They have a small kitchen and a big kitchen table and there are certain steps and dodges we perform to set the table, make the tea and break our fast. We've pared it down to something functional and elegant, accommodating each others styles and preferences.
***
Yesterday night, just after the first stars had come out, I was outside in the courtyard. I looked up to see Orion's Belt moving across the sky! What magic is this, I thought? Then, I realized it was a flock of geese that had arranged itself into familiar constellations.
***
My grandparents' washing machine has several cycles. Along with knits and delicates, there is the memories setting. This is a fantastic machine, I think. Not only does it wash away mustard and red wine, but the very circumstances that put those stains there in the first place. Remember when you spilled that drink on the picnic blanket and the stain looked like Kamchatka? I'd rather not put that one in the laundry.
I heard a program on the radio about memory a while back. The program is called Radiolab, and it's one of my favorites. They were examining the nature of memory and cited a study which found that the more we remember a memory, the more that we think about it, the farther it strays from the reality it originally reflected. We don't access memories like we access files on a hard drive, but actively reconstruct them every time we think of them. The memories we seldom call up are closer to "truth" than those we think about a lot. I think that explains a lot.
***
Last night Janko and I went skating. There's a skating rink in the main square in Bratislava where you can rent skates. We borrowed a pair each and set off on a circuit. Just after putting on the skates, I felt this sinking feeling. Why do I always forget that I truly dislike skating until the very moment I put my formerly warm foot into a vice-like shell of frozen leather? There's something about the feel of rough ice under my feet, something about the discomfort of ice skates that I can't bring myself to overcome. We circled around and around, colored lights, Madonna songs and amazingly coordinated children swirled about us. We were arm in arm, my cousin leaning in, shouting into my ear about the breakthrough he'd had that day with his hardcore punk rock band, how they'd really jammed at practice. It should have been so nice to be there and I very much wanted to be glad with the world, but all I could think about was how much I hated skating and so I finally said so and we returned the skates and went to drink some wine instead. I'm never skating again, I swear.
***
I am taking the night train to Berlin to visit Hilda on Saturday!
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