EXCHANGE IS THE BEST IDEA EVER
Sunday, March 6, 2005 4:34 pm
maracuyá yogurt on cereal, peach juice, bread, cheese. this space age shower with massage jets that we squeegee with a dust pan. I wake up an hour before class. the door locks four times. two and a half blocks to campus: one cigarette, one-way streets, the person with the elaborate garden on their balcony above the vacant papelería. note-taking on graph paper. ¿qué tal? ¿cómo estás? bien, cansada, gracias, ¿y tú? te veo a casa. a la fiesta. te llamo luego. Spanglish. (come si dice "forse", cazzo?) I speak four languages. more bread, cheese, meat that my Canadian/American roommate cooks for us. I wash the dishes. a glass of wine and a joint with dinner. (a routine I could get used to! where am I?: beer, weed, poutine, sleep. wine, weed, bar, bread, sleep.) Lonely Planet on TV dubbed in Spanish. episodes so far: Syria, Australia. All I want to do is travel. All I want to do is eat poutine, pasta, ham and cheese sandwiches, and try to talk to you in your native language. anti-fascist graffiti everywhere. I can't cook anything and we have no snacks so I boil eggs and eat mustard. travel is a sensual experience: sense-based. all of these tastes. the sound of car horns, the wind in my European blinds, yelling. the same songs in clubs over & over (baila morena, baila morena!). smoke from tobacco, weed and hash. the cold. fruit crates on the sidewalk. long dark hair. every moment is irreversible. as if I would ever go back on any of this anyway. I split my time between awkwardness and explosive happiness.
maracuyá yogurt on cereal, peach juice, bread, cheese. this space age shower with massage jets that we squeegee with a dust pan. I wake up an hour before class. the door locks four times. two and a half blocks to campus: one cigarette, one-way streets, the person with the elaborate garden on their balcony above the vacant papelería. note-taking on graph paper. ¿qué tal? ¿cómo estás? bien, cansada, gracias, ¿y tú? te veo a casa. a la fiesta. te llamo luego. Spanglish. (come si dice "forse", cazzo?) I speak four languages. more bread, cheese, meat that my Canadian/American roommate cooks for us. I wash the dishes. a glass of wine and a joint with dinner. (a routine I could get used to! where am I?: beer, weed, poutine, sleep. wine, weed, bar, bread, sleep.) Lonely Planet on TV dubbed in Spanish. episodes so far: Syria, Australia. All I want to do is travel. All I want to do is eat poutine, pasta, ham and cheese sandwiches, and try to talk to you in your native language. anti-fascist graffiti everywhere. I can't cook anything and we have no snacks so I boil eggs and eat mustard. travel is a sensual experience: sense-based. all of these tastes. the sound of car horns, the wind in my European blinds, yelling. the same songs in clubs over & over (baila morena, baila morena!). smoke from tobacco, weed and hash. the cold. fruit crates on the sidewalk. long dark hair. every moment is irreversible. as if I would ever go back on any of this anyway. I split my time between awkwardness and explosive happiness.