sleepless (not even in Seattle)

Spending a few weeks at my mom's suburban (albeit rented) home sends me right back to adolescence. It's not that I even spent my teenage years in suburbia (some might even call where we used to live a city), it's just that there's something mercurial about this new place, and underdeveloped. Groups of restless youngsters parade the bare sidewalks from their clustered houses to the Blockbuster parking lot and back. Men in slacks dutifully mow their lawns as bored dogs circle the surroundings. I lie here awake, smelling the humid air breeze through the open window, waiting for the early morning sprinklers to kick in. And although I don't even live here, my heart is screaming for an escape.

seaside

While in England, we desperately wanted to visit the coast. We realized that driving a few hours to the south of London would not get us to a "real" ocean, but "merely" the English Channel, and yet there was still something exciting about putting my toes into waters on the other side of where I had been before, in Northern France. So we took the challenge of getting to the seaside.

When we consulted an English-man, though, he proceeded to dissuade us from our terrible idea. The coast is gloomy, he said. The water is dark, the sky is rainy, and the wind is piercing, he persuaded. We would not have fun, he concluded. But we failed to listen, and boy, were we glad for it.



The English seaside greeted us with clear blue waters and chalk-white cliffs. Green hills speckled with sheep-dots rolled in the landscape. I had never imagined the English countryside so benign, or even so pleasant. As we lay on the rocky shore, our spirits calmed by the crashing waves and warmed by the summer sun, I remember thinking that for this, I could even forgive the British-asshole-dom earlier part of our trip. I could take my dad up on the invite to live here.

bones

While in England, I discovered yet another thing that my dad and I have in common: our hands. My mom, she gave me her body shape. Our wide hips and narrow waists and muscular thighs form our hourglass figures akin to those in biology textbooks. (Though, given the fashion industry's fascination with the heroin-grunge look and all-around flat models, this has NOT been a blessing in the least.) Her long graceful fingers, however, those I did not inherit. Instead I got little hands with shapeless fingers, ones that I have been embarrassed about for so much of my life. (To the point that I even avoid wedding pictures that include close-ups of my hands.) So there I was, going through life in agony of my orphan ugly hands, completely unaware that this is yet another proof that my dad did in fact contribute to my genetic makeup. And this clarity, it blinds me!

I will admit though, that despite my parents living on different continents, it is a calming thought that at least I have parents. I can trace back the proverbial DNA breadcrumbs they left for me on my path and hopefully end up somewhere at the origin. Because this tree, it needs the roots.

focusing

At this point we are in Michigan, visiting all sorts of family all over the state. Coming back to the Midwest after some time in Europe was a huge culture shock, one that I wasn't prepared to handle. It mostly revolved around strip malls and convenience and patriotism and I guess, general societal organization. I know I am signed up for 4 more years of grad school in the States, but I bet it will be really hard to convince me to stay here once I am free to choose where I want to live (which is such an American (not only, obviously, but at least it gets reinforced that much more, here) concept - free to choose? I should count myself lucky to be able to sit here on my well-nourished (though the nourishment part can be debated, given American food industry) ass choosing where the hell in the whole wide world I want to live, eh?). But seriously. I miss Europe and I miss my family in Europe: I miss going to castles with my dad, I miss taking the train to the sea side, I miss walking the streets of St. Petersburg, I miss specialized stores, I miss making myself baguette sandwiches with real, yummy bread and real, yummy ham and mm-mm the cheese! It just doesn't taste the same here. In short, I might take me a while to recover.

Something that is nice about Michigan, however, is the Great Lakes. The nature around these gargantuan bodies of water is a bandaid to my aching heart. You just can't pass up sipping wine at sunset on a Lake Michigan beach. This is what I have to focus on.

even when refusing the labels

Independent book shops, especially with used books sections, on cute streets in small American towns get me every time. My actually-no-money-in-a-quite-literal-sense self always manages to scrape together the $3 for an Oldie But Goodie. This time it was The Plague by Albert Camus. Feeling a little reluctant about the translated version and a little guilty about skipping out on the French one, I decided to dive into it anyway.

That time period, the first half of the 20th century, kind of amazes me. The amount of thought and passionate philosophies emanating from authors, teachers, leaders, people all intermixing and challenging each other is quite a contrast to our relatively quiet times. Of course, they also had wars and whatnot, and the world was changing shape, but people were reacting and writing about it! There were the nihilists, the socialists, the communists, the fascists, the existentialists all concentrating in one melting pot. Do peaceful times come with complacent citizens? Or am I, no surprise, being pessimistic about the people of today?

But basically, man, I miss Europe.