Victory under construction

I wrote so many postcards and so many emails and so many journal entries about Berlin, I feel like I must have written this post already. I loved Berlin. Enough to extend my stay, and domino-effect everyone else into doing the same. Here's the story of my favorite non-Italian European city.

First things first. (Even though this is almost last.) Europe is all about preserving history. Lucky for us. Unluckily for us tourists, that means that it is a fact of life that it is absolutely impossible to go somewhere without some big important famous sight coyly getting re-dressed behind some scaffolding. In Berlin, that was the Victory Column. Here's what postcards and the internet purport exists:

Here's what I saw:

No matter where you go, you will find this to be true. Sometimes, if you're lucky, the scaffolding will be covered with a printed image of what you're supposed to be seeing, and from pictures and far away it almost looks like the real thing. Sometimes, somebody decides that it is a great place for a giant advertisement, and the front of a church or the sides of a bridge are bedecked with the chiseled features of Calvin Klein models. Still other times, the cover is a solid color, or an architectural drawing of what lies beneath, and in the midst of all the imposing importance around it, the building becomes almost invisible.


Back to Berlin. Day One marks the arrival of Brendan and little else. Day Two was the epitome of dreary: wet, cold, drizzling, and we weren't quite prepared for it or its unmotivating effects. We walked to the Brandenburg Gate and had some cheesy pretzels from a street vendor. We sought an indoor activity and opted for viewing the city from above from within the glass dome on top of the Reichstag, the parliamentary building. The only flaw in this plan was that to get to the top we first had to stand in line outside for about an hour, and we were a numb, glum, drippy quartet when we finally made it to the portico. Still, the thought that aside from a security checkpoint this was completely free and open to the public made me keep loving Berlin. The Reichstag, over 100 years old, with its dome of not even 20 years, exemplified what I would find to be the character of Berlin. A fusion of past and present, historic and modern, memories and dreams. Inside the dome, one walkway spiraled up while another spiraled down, forming a traffic-preventing double helix. The free audio tour read stripes of paint on the path to sense your location and tell you about what you could see from where you were. The joys of German efficiency. I may love the rusty crusty, but a lesser known fact until now is that I also have a passion for clean lines, structure, and glass. Berlin, full of both, was true love.

Day Three started out with adventure. Matt lured me into his vague plan with promises of 'the most moving statue his brother had ever seen,' and I was curious enough to find out what could make a statue moving (and just generally wanted to see as much of Berlin as possible), so I woke up early and joined in the adventure. We arrived at Treptower Park, one of the many beautiful green areas in the city, and began our quest for this elusive statue. Instead, we ran into people setting up some kind of fairground. We consulted a vague map before inquiring with a solitary man who seemed strangely happy to help. He gave us complicated German directions with lots of lefts and rights and forks and more rights and lefts, all the while seeming like he was leading us to his den of robbers. Regardless, we made it. As is typical in Europe, we first saw a clearing with a small statue, but as we approached and turned a bend, the world opened up to reveal what was in store for us. I firmly believe that Europe loves the grand reveal, complete with mental fanfare.

The rest of the day consisted of a tour full of sights and the details necessary to appreciate them.

Day Four was the art day of the trip. We all went to the Guggenheim, and though I think I was the only one who really enjoyed it, I think I liked the exhibit of Wangechi' Mutu's work enough to make up for the rest of the group. I waxed on about it in my journal. For once, what really made it for me was the artist's statement, which, combined with her work, yielded much thinking on my part concerning the relationship between an artist's intended message and a viewer's interpretation, and whether one is more correct than another. Other sights for the day included the only Catholic church in Berlin, a chocolate store where you can get custom-made chocolate, the Tiergarten, and allegedly the Victory Column. From here Matt and I pushed further while the other two stayed behind, and after much navigational miscalculation we arrived at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Once a grand church at the center of the intersection of several thoroughfares, this church was heavily bombed during the war. Instead of fully restoring it, however, the remains of the church were made structurally sound, and a modern chapel and campanile were constructed on either side of it. Now, with its gaping wounds and jagged spire, it is a blatant reminder that the past cannot be allowed to stay in the past. I wondered what it would be like to drive past it every day on the way to work. Surrounded by strip malls and fast food places, I wondered whether locals saw it as an open wound, as I did, or whether the construction around it indicated that it had been allowed to scar.

Day 5 was mostly conclusions and preparations. Matt and I journeyed to the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining section of the Wall (over 1km), covered in paintings. We met up with Brendan and I finally had the famous Black Forest cake, as instructed. In the evening we all reconvened for currywurst and bratwurst from the best locale for it in Berlin, a pre-dinner before our real dinner, which ended up being at a 'Mexican' restaurant. This would be our final meal as a group of four, and we made it last. On the way home we found a photobooth, and crammed in to make some final memories. Though we weren't quite enough to make the tiny booth overflow with people, there was laughter enough to fill the whole street.

Just the bottoms

Amsterdam

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Torino

Today's Date

Despite the lingering thread pointing to Germany at the end of my last post, it is not yet time for Germany; it is time for our last day in the Czech Republic. One thing that was notably absent from my recounting of Prague, but previously mentioned, was the cultural prevalence of beer. What better, then, than to visit Plzeň, where Pilsner Urquell is brewed, and czech it out for myself? 'Urquell' literally means 'original source,' and according to the tour guide as well as Wikipedia, 'most popular lagers produced in the rest of the world are based upon this original beer.' But, this is getting ahead of things.

After a two-hour early morning train ride, Matt and I arrived in Plzeň and were instantly greeted by the wafting scent of the famous brew. This fragrance would wend its way around the city, disappearing just so it could reappear and remind us of its presence. Though our main objective was the brewery, the tour was three hours after our arrival, and the town was ours for the exploring. I guess I shouldn't call it a town; its population exceeds 100,000. Still, because we mostly saw the Old Town Square and surrounding areas, despite the city's vast industrial expanse, it felt like a town.

As usual, a Gothic church loomed over the otherwise open square, today peppered by vendors and pony rides and cotton candy and popcorn. Brightly colored buildings, at once quaint and ornate, bordered the square. It just felt so quintessential. Andean performers created an out of place soundtrack to the experience. We entered the church and discovered that we could go up the tower, the tallest in Bohemia at 102 meters. At the top, I marveled. I looked out over the expanse of Plzeň, buffeted by the wind, and breathed, and sat, and breathed. The Andean music tinkled up from below and somehow it almost fit now.

After visiting the Great Synagogue we returned for the tour. The brewery produces Pilsner, Kozel (a dark beer), Gambrinus, and Rategast (a non-Alcoholic beer), but it is now part of the SAB Miller conglomerate, which is also responsible for delicacies like Steel Reserve, Keystone, and Miller High Life. During the tour we rode in the largest elevator in the country, which fits approximately 75 people and was probably bigger than my dorm room. We tasted barley, malt, and hops. Later, even more excitingly, we tasted unfiltered, unpasteurized Pilsner straight from a giant fermentation barrel. After the tour, led by Ignacious, on his first day and in his lucky shoes, we returned to the square. We visited the City Hall and found a moving memorial to WWII soldiers. Plzeň was liberated by troops led by Patton, and the city has always had very pro-America sentiments. There is actually a monument to Patton somewhere in the city. Here, however, we found photos of mostly American soldiers, how they looked then and now, alongside their written memories of their tour of Plzeň.

By the time we headed back to Prague for the night, hunger had set in, and I gave in to Chinese takeout for the train ride back. It was the first Chinese food I had had since leaving the US, and one of only a handful of occasions when I had eaten 'foreign' food while in Europe. Matt and I snuck up on Ellie on our way back to the hostel and, reunited, the three of us went for dinner/snack at the restaurant we visited on our first day in Prague. Farewell, Czech, soon, finally, hello Germany.

Prague Potpourri

I untie the crackled gold cover of the leather travel journal I bought in Florence, and I think about how much memory and detail time erases. Europe seems ages ago. But then, I will hear the name of a place that used to be foreign, and a mental double take will remind me that it has become familiar. I have been there, once long ago. Little things keep surprising me. Being able to type an @ without a scavenger hunt on the keyboard, toilet paper that is square again, hearing strangers speaking Spanish; I guess these things mean home.


Things my journal says I loved about the Czech Republic:

Despite being mostly incapable of remembering anything other than the words, 'Speak English?, beer, and please,' I love that I understand the pronunciation. One of the things I found overwhelming in Vienna was being surrounded by so much textual information but being unequipped to pronounce it, much less read it. Here, I might have no idea what I'm saying, but I'm probably saying it right enough.
I loved finally having an exchange rate in my favor, with the Kc being about 20 to the dollar.
I experienced what I think was my first and only thunderstorm in Europe on our way to dinner the first night.

The guidebook asserted that once you get a taste of the local cuisine, you will wonder why and how you've never had it. It is delicious. For people who love meat and potatoes sneakily dressed in shockingly rich and intricate flavors. For people who aren't afraid to literally take a stab at a pork knee or neck. The only thing I disliked was a street-vendor prepackaged sandwich I bought against my better judgment, based on a photo that bore no resemblance to the product I received. I had to disassemble it and eat the exterior of the bread and napkin off the chicken inside, which was covered in gobs of some sauce so vividly orange it could probably be used as a homing beacon.

While most of the places we had visited in Europe thus far felt old, Prague felt like a timeline. Or, perhaps more accurately, a time knot. Over five hundred years worth of architectural movements cozily intermingle, leaving one to wonder whether the streets of Prague started out like a gap-toothed baby's gums, with buildings popping up over time to fill in empty spaces. Adjacent architecture ranges from Medieval to Gothic to Art Deco to Art Nouveau to Cubist (the only city with Cubist architecture) to Soviet to Modern to Contemporary. The Municipal House, a resplendent example of Art Nouveau built in 1911, is right next to the Powder Gate, which leads into Old Town, was built in 1475, and across the street from these two structures is a building built in the Soviet era.

My favorite place in all of Prague --  as I say this so many other candidates come to mind; perhaps the calling it the most serene place I experienced would be more accurate -- was Vyšehrad. We took a short, steep, green and wooded walk (with bits of rust) up to and through the walls of this hilltop fortress above the Vltava River. I could have spent all day overlooking the city, far from the hustle and bustle and rustle of life and tourists, but after a picnic brunch we kept exploring. Through ancient gates and a cemetery of the average and famous together in death, we arrived at the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul. What a surprise. Inside the imposing time-blackened Neo-Gothic church, the walls were covered in Art Nouveau depictions of saints. Before I lapse into rhapsodic art history mumbo jumbo I will move on, but know that for me it was art history magic.

We all took some time apart one afternoon to tend to our diverse interests, and I went to the only museum I saw in the Czech Republic: the Alfons Mucha Museum. I have always loved his art, and here in what at first seemed like a distressingly small (but ended up being a deceptively deep) space, I found much to keep loving. Original drawings, unfinished drafts pulled from the lithography stone, photographs taken in his studio, a childhood painting, medals, even a New York Times article about his visit to the United States. In fact, because the museum was not so so large, I was able to savor everything, read every description, and feel neither rushed nor overwhelmed.

Despite the fact that Prague was fascinating, it left me a little unsatisfied. Looking back there was much to admire and appreciate and much to see that I didn't have time for, those things you add to the 'Next time in Europe' list. I'm not sure what was lacking, or whether anything really was lacking at all. Maybe it was the promise of Berlin just around the corner, the destination I had chosen; the one place I had been itching to get to all along.

The first and last look

Train stations:
the land of hellogoodbye
the land of transit
the land of transitions

Prague

Plzeň

Berlin

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Milan

Milan really was the last last look.

Moving Picture Show

The view from the road, through the windows
Not quite here and not quite there yet

In the land of grand

Late Tuesday night, on May 4th, we departed. Goodbye tears prickled threateningly on the car ride to the train station, but they were banished by linguistic hilarity as, even on my last day, I found myself saying words that didn’t exist. Not only that, for some reason I refused to concede the nonexistence of the word. Train #1: to Bologna. Train #2: overnight to Vienna, Wien in German. In regards to this journey, you have already read what I have to say. It was the beginning of something incredible, and in the midst of card games and iPod DJ-ing, it felt like it. Something big was coming.

Wien, to put it simply, was a constant wow. Every building was breathtaking, and seemed like it should have some remarkable purpose, though in all likelihood it was just as easily an apartment building as something of historical significance. Every block, every corner we turned, more and more ornate resplendence, gilt, statues, and curlicues. My photos attest to this, and it began to feel like I was just going to have an infinite array of nameless, grandiose buildings. My penchant for rust and crust had to be relegated to the back burner; those two words are not in the Wiener’s lexicon. There was also a bizarre propensity of statues depicting figures in the midst of acts of violence (clubbing, stabbing, strangling, …).

But, let me backtrack. The day we arrived in Wien, after dumping our bags at the hostel (Ellie’s and mine ostensibly larger than Matt’s impossibly small backpack), we decided to catch a train to Bratislava. When another country’s capital is an hour away, and you have unlimited train travel for the day, it is hard to resist. So we zoomed off to Slovakia, not really knowing what we would find. Bratislava was … off. We all felt that there was something about it, something not quite identifiable, that made its energy radically different than anything we had thus far encountered. There were touches of fancy, bright spots of color, and sweeps of gray. It was neither here nor there. In my journal I described it as having an ‘indiscernible twist.’ Perhaps the most interesting and memorable part of Bratislava was the food. Matt, who might as well have ‘guidebook’ appended to his name, lead us well and we feasted on traditional Slovak cuisine. We had a starter of bratwurst, more like summer sausage, hams, and butter, with rye bread. Next I had halu˘sky, the so-called ‘best in town,’ and I can’t argue with that. Potato dumplings, more like potato crumbles, with a sauce of sheep’s cheese and bacon and bacon grease, served with a mug of sour milk. It was totally foreign, totally delicious, totally affordable, and totally filling. Now we understood why the waitress had suggested the smaller portion, but we stubborn and hungry Americans had refused her sagacity. We didn’t see too much that dreary afternoon, but we saw some interesting street art, saw what we thought was the town square but later decided probably wasn’t, and left with rain-soaked shoes and a good taste in our mouths. Day one, success.

Now back to Vienna. Looking through my journal, there is so much to recount but perhaps little of interest to someone who didn’t live it. We sat in box seats at the Staatsopera (State Opera) House to watch The Barber of Seville; it would seem that Vienna’s affinity for the arts and culture extends to making it very affordable for the masses. We ate the one and only, original, Sacher Torte, as recommended. There was the so-called ‘bottle incident.’ I tried to dispose of an empty bottle and, much to my surprise, the bottom dropped out of the elevated trashcan, raining cigarette butts, juice boxes, napkins, and so on all over the plaza in front of (the, no surprise, mind-blowingly ornate, gothic) City Hall. The wind was nice enough to pick up and scatter it all even farther. Mortification. The jaw-dropping Stefansdom felt anything but reverential inside, full of squeaking shoes, flashing cameras, audio guides, and loud tourists, and the climb to the top of the North Tower yielded little redemption. It was a gift shop with narrow windows looking out onto each cardinal direction. The view was nice, but all in all it paled in comparison with every other church tower I visited.

Museums museums museums, some good, some perfunctory, some great. The Secession Museum, so named because it represented a split from the dominant art school of the time, impressed me with its adhesion to the founding principles. It exhibited challenging and forward-thinking contemporary art, rather than just showing art from the movement that founded it. My favorite museum, though, was the Belvedere. Located in a garden so vast that walking after walking for three forevers you are no closer to your destination, it was every bit as grand as what Vienna taught me to expect, but my expectations didn’t make it any less impressive. The last of the museums I saw, it felt the least like a checklist, and I really connected with the art exhibited. Furthermore, I finally saw a significant collection of Klimt pieces, though every museum we saw had at least a handful.

During these days we savored schnitzel, kebab, and one night when everything else was closed we ended up in an ambiguous Middle Eastern restaurant and ordered the first thing on the menu. It turned out to be some kind of wrap, and inquiry revealed that we had chosen a Persian establishment. I joined Guidebook Matt, who was determined to have a Viennese Café Experience, and the place we chose was perfectly chintzy and comfortable and delicious, despite not having either of the pastries we attempted to order. It was one of those places you could spend all day, and we certainly spent more time there than we intended, though part of that was due to our inability to ask for the bill and our unwillingness to resort to English.

A transition, courtesy of the travel journal:

We’re on our way to Prague today. It’s hard to believe we have already finished one leg of the trip. I still haven’t drawn a conclusion about Vienna. At first I felt like it was worth seeing, but not somewhere I’d like to stay. Then, by yesterday, my opinion had shifted. What can I say, I love me my art meccas. I can only imagine how much amazing art passes through here. Also, of course, for the most part the Vienna I saw was the tourist’s Vienna, not the Wiener’s Wien. There are a handful of things I wish I had had the time to see or do, but overall I am very content with our stay, and ready for this next step. It is hard for me to imagine one of those whirlwind tours of Europe. A day or two in a whole country just isn’t enough time to find something real.

Stories to tell

I am home. Over the next few weeks I will be filling in all the blanks, perhaps doing a bit of back and forth time travel, but getting to everything. For now, though, I will tell you about how I got home.

Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.

The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.

We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.

Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)

I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.

I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.

Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.

This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.

So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.