It can’t be overstated, moving to a new country is a Herculean task, like scaling a brick wall with your bare hands.
Madrid is a superb vacation destination, but we aren't on vacation. This is our lives now.
The first thing you should know is that I do not speak Spanish. That is to say, I know how to ask for beers ("dos cervezas, por favor") and I have the ability to read most signs and can even get the gist of more complex sentences, but when it comes to the actual act … Continue reading “Lo siento”: Welcome to Madrid and starting over, again
I've lived in Brooklyn, worked in Manhattan, rarely been to Queens, coasted through the Bronx, and touched my toes on Staten Island. I've had one experience of the city, and it is hardly representative. But it is still authentic.
Last days are never as profound as they appear on television.
Home is a base, a starting point, a fixture to which I latch a tether, however temporarily. Like a climber reaching for the next anchor point, I’m always searching for somewhere new to fasten a hold.
No matter how many books read, how many websites visited, how many personal accounts accumulated, when it comes down to make the actual move, my arms remain outstretched in a darkened room.
It was an ugly, brown polyester gas station attendant’s jacket, made all the more unsightly by large rips, frayed edges, and a phalanx of safety pins. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen.