barcelona in as few words as possible

many new friends. reconnecting with old friends. awe-inspiring architecture. antoni gaudi.  dinner parties..lentils and taters and salad and fresh fruit. mercadona! african film festival... in catalan and french. john cage and merce cunningham exhibit at macba. la rambla and crazy vendors. australians and how crazy they really are.  sangria and pan con tomate while gypsies played the spanish guitar in the gothic quarter. highlighters and dancing in old factories. Julio's "babies". baby kangaroos in the zoo. old men play bocci and chess while the sun set behind barca's version of the arc d'triumph. catalunyan chocolate made from old world recipes. joan miro. argentina and why i wish i could speak better spanish. 9 forms of transportation in 15 hours. si us plau! si us plau! 

and my favorite...walking the city with my best friend talking about old times and new times and all the times that we missed out on eachother's company. i love my sra. and i'm glad she's back. 

if i wasnt starting a new job...i honestly wouldve stayed for a month or two. at the same time, something in me felt as though the sweetness of it all had much to do with how little time i had there. it was all quite wonderfully sweet. 

On adolescence and adulthood.

It was then, amidst the song that induced a memory I had buried deep within the dark abyss of my mind. A place where the pains of your legacy continues pressing on strings with deft, calloused fingers on a carpeted floor stretched taut, the coarse, fibrous yarns spun of dashed ideals and the uncertainty of eighteen. The cold air pushes through ceiling slats and the pinkish-violet remains of the sun grasped the Philadelphia sky--only it wasn't Philly painted across the windowed canvas. In its stead, a skyline built in four years. A tragedy scrawled in pamphlets, left & leaving. A story I have yet to reconcile of a love never realized. The boy whose heart broke under the hot lamps of a life long dream that escaped his memory, never to return. That first cigarette, pressed clumsily upon wind-chapped lips, a falsely perceived adulthood. A stolen kiss, masked in the fading licorice haze of adolescence. Those quiet reflections, where I realized it was against the will of the Lord most high for us to live as individuals...only then, the seeds of poverty taking root in the depths of my very being. 

The final moments of dusk shook me from reverie as the pinkish hues stretched upward, grasping the heavens in fear that the sun may never rise again. This is me now, years later and reminded that autumn exists in the city. The overwhelming stench of beautiful decay. The things I thought I'd never miss. 

Your funeral is magnificent, decorated in shades of mustard and olive. A procession of skeletal figures coming forth to pay their last respects. And you, that crooked smirk gracing a pert mouth. A snide retort prepared should the opportunity present itself. Your sallow skin, yellow-green in the corridor lighting, stretches over delicate bones. Though all the parts are there, no sound exists. The oxygen is removed from our lungs and we are momentarily frozen in time and place. There is overwhelming stillness in this peace only granted by Him. And I stay in that space until my lungs burn and my vision begins to fade forcing me to breathe, gasping and heaving. 

The figures glare. Unnerving. They read my every movement. My mouth. My hands. The rise and fall of my chest. Glorious, this ghastly procession. A parade of toothy smiles, pasted on unwelcome, yet familiar faces. Only then, I press my palm on the papery-thin flesh of your pallid cheek, A final attempt. A futile hope in resurrecting the dry pathways of your veins. Oh, soul-less creature. Oh, spirited son. 

"The dream is dead, the moment passed," His lower lip trembled slightly, betraying his confident tone. "And we are nothing. Born of the earth, we will return to our Father."

Greece, In as few words as possible.

owls and morning doves. church bells: on the hour, the half hour. cool mornings followed by incredibly hot, dry days. morning bus trips to the city. walks through the agora. early morning trips to the mountainside, picking sage tea, oregano. glimpses of my history. stories. family. new friends, cousins i've yet to see in years. walks to the seaside. the calm, calm aegean. churches, monastaries. pakistani refugees. political turmoil and indecision. fresh figs. taking walks with pappou. petrified forest. the poet sappho. an abandoned turkish hotel. the graveyard. afternoons with marianthi. molyvos. the word hortofagos, and the fact that it means nothing here. photoz. coffee and icecream with pappou.

things i have yet to see, but will soon:
printizi, italy. the adriatic sea. patra. my baby xardefaki strati. my theo and thea. athina. the city.

things i miss:
my bike. philly. being able to speak english. good friends.

annotations on dollar bills and rent checks.

"I hate this city."

I cringed, my nose wrinkling as he punctuated the said statement with yet another angry jab at the horn. My driver appeared far to young to be this bitter. The strain of the city's unceasing traffic reflected in eyebrows so tightly knit, I began to doubt that they had ever looked any different. At once, in my own thoughts in the back seat of a gypsy cab in Long Island...I feel relief. Innate relief. A sigh from somewhere within the inner workings of my heart. And so began a story--his story--but a story nonetheless. Of a life once lived. Of youth now lost. Of love forgotten. 

And I listened. And I listened. 

I felt the pain of the child who would never know "normal", born into a loveless relationship. I saw a man, struggling to reconcile past aspirations, a man whose religion is defined by how much he's worth. Whose worth is defined by his wealth...quantified in dollar bills and rent checks. 

And I listened. And I listened. 

It was at that moment that the words came to me. They echoed in my ears and I knew that they were written before they were written. 

An hour prior to my return to Philly, I write these words in a small coffeeshop in the East Village (They brew Intelligentcia, you'd be proud) whose mosaic-tiled floors had seen better days. Whose baristas fit the bill. And whose earl gray is particularly strong, if I should say so myself. Perched upon a stool, seated at a round, marble-swirled tabletop, I have a wonderful view at the apex of Twelfth and "A" as Manhattan's characters go about their Wednesday morning. 

New York is yet a foreigner to me. Its actors so well versed in a script I don't yet understand. I'm still stumbling over the lines...not quite sure if I truly wish to memorize them, a part of me fearful that in conforming, by default I'd become The Artist or The Waitress, or worse...Girl One (or Two or Ten), a nameless face in this ongoing production. So, I play the part of The Visitor or The Tourist, an outsider reading the faces and examining the nuances, picking apart cryptic smiles and eyebrows tightly knit, for some sort of humanity lost, for loves now forgotten and lives once lived until I'm breathlessly anxious and scared...and I understand how these faces became masks. The city spins at an alarming pace; its inhabitants dizzy and drunk, barely grasping hold of any remaining truth. 

And it spins. And it spins. 

Then it stops, the constant clamor and clang that flooded my ears and polluted my vision comes to a screeching halt as an April snow, soft and delicate, spirals silently onto the now quiet pavement, as if this is God's way of reminding us that life presses on, that we are all players trying our best in our own way to figure it out. Suddenly, today is perfect in its imperfection. Today, in all of its chaos is perfect, because it isn't, because God wouldn't have it any other way. And I understand that I spend too much of my time in the details, ironing out the creases and folds with careful precision, analyzing every facet. It's okay. For the first time since I came to New York, I'm okay with all of it. 

The sunlight is now peaking through faded window shades, casting shadows that dance across paisley-papered walls and faces so deeply engrossed in laptops, books and magazines. Unexpectedly, it is once again a sunny April morning in New York, and that's alright with me. 

      The gypsy cab driver takes the scenic route to Stonybrook station. Glancing at the time, I'm glad that, for once in my life, I was early. 

     "How much do I owe you?" I ask my new friend. 

     "Nothing," He replies, smiling. I return the gesture and offer him a ten. The man, whose religion is defined by how much he's worth and whose worth is defined by his wealth. This man nods once more, smiles, refusing the bill. 

     "No. I've enjoyed our discussion--best of luck to you, miss." I bury his kindness in my heart, a memory for another time and place. In that moment, his face softened, allowing me a glimpse of a life once lived and a youth...not quite yet forgotten, perfect in all of its imperfections. 

That the past remains in its rightful place.

Strange. To be in the company of those I've only caught glimpses of. Little snippets of a past whose history is not my own--whose stories gracefully weave themselves into a history entirely of my own making. How and when did I become so audacious to assume? Though I, for one, am glad that I did. I've been weighing this thought much lately and it crossed my mind while I sit to write this entry on a lovely day at the tail end of March. 

And so it is this sort of afternoon. The sun has warmed the tired earth, as if a traveler come again to remind us that he, in fact, did not quite forget us. The air carries the sediments of the past season. It is this sort of transition. A time became and yet becoming. And on this sort of day, through this sort of transition, comes this sort of promise: a tentative response; an awareness of the delicate balance. 

Today is the day that I am introduced to the splendor that is Philadelphia in the spring (at least I'm acknowledging it as such). I graciously accept this introduction with a heart that is not heavy or light, neither lost nor found. Everything is lull and lazily moving forward on its own accord, as if the problems of the world cease to exist for this one afternoon. I'm riding northbound on a street I've yet to experience and for the first time in months, the ride was no longer about the destination, but the peace of being and reflection. I take my time, as if I had all the time in a world whose problems cease to exist, if just for this one afternoon (the day called for such a response, as you know). Something extraordinary happens on these bike rides from Center City. The tightly wound core unravels wonderfully. The grid breaks suddenly. And Philly slowly comes to life. 

Understand that I cherish these moments. 

Upon entering the church on the corner of Eighteenth and Diamond, I close my eyes and breathe in the air of a history that is not quite my own, yet somehow I own it. It's familiar, even if I can't quite describe it. The light, now stale, hovers expectantly. The dust, suspended in time, eagerly waits for another moment. The silence, swollen with anticipation, grips the floor tiles. The room is pregnant with expectation and I am humbled in its presence. The space is breathing. I am reminded that God's grace abounds and transcends all understanding of my own capacity. My only hope is that old wounds find healing here. That the past remains in its rightful place, try as it might to resurrect itself incessantly in the stories told by the paintings on the walls. 

The decision to come here has granted me a caretaker of a piece of our collective history. Not as a nation, but as a people. And all at once, I'm overwhelmed that this can exist on such a small scale within the city limits and yet so much more lies beyond this. We're merely a glimmer in this grand story. Yet, we can be big things to our small stretch of time. Make meaningful relationships, even if not with everyone. We can leave our mark, even if few see it. We can even take a moment to respond to creation and simply enjoy as though the world's problems cease to exist, if just for one afternoon.