see you

This blogging business ain't easy, I tell you.

I just got off an airplane yesterday, where I existed in limbo for fifteen hours of a threatening headache, prior to which I'd already travelled by plane, a bus, and a taxi, after a teary morning meltdown and Carnival paint smeared on my arm, forehead, and left boob a la Tony; as if I don't smear enough things on that boob by myself.

Dinha's crew on my last day. Joe couldn't even fire me.

And today, I have to write a post. Thursdays can be so demanding, though I imagine much of my international audience is now reading this on Friday. But I promised you a weekly post. I think it might be the biggest commitment I've ever made, actually. It's been a joyous, terrifying, wonderfully strange journey, but I really wouldn't have it any other way; though my obsession with consistent timely posting often leaves my friends looking confused at my dedication to something that pays nothing. Welcome to being a writer.

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So, let me prop my jet-lagged eyes open because the show must go on...


Leaving India was hard. I feel so loved and happy in Benaulim, I'm tempted to cut my losses, accept Tony's marriage proposal(s), and go native. But nearing the Newark airport, Springsteen's American buttocks album seemed like a fitting way to welcome myself back. And I really did start feeling happy to have been "born in the USA." Writing "American" under nationality on the customs form and stepping to the end of the line for citizens, I felt a growing giddy sense of identity. I'm no staunch patriot, but the familiarity feels good, reminds me who I am and will continue to be no matter what part of the world I traverse. Home is home, and I love being an American. It's nice to be reminded once in a while.

Then I passed a couple taxi drivers looking to negotiate fares in the Jersey airport and wondered if I had actually brought India home with me. Sandy jeans and colorfully packaged teas are reminders scattered across the wood floor of my old bedroom. I'm trying to reclaim sleep I've missed for several weeks while steady rain patters on the rooftop. Listening to one of Pascal's favorite Indian mystic CDs, I feel happy and quiet. Experience has a way of organizing itself in memories over time. The next thing can wait.

Farewell flower petals left outside my door.

And the flying carpet? I don't think any explanation, even if there was one, could rival whatever you can imagine.


Now back to sleep. Sweet dreams.


OneArmGirl