Marmalade Daydreams

Today is my final day stateside until the end of August, but before beginning final preparations, I'd like to record some of the amazing week and feelings I've had since last I wrote. I've been having a fantastic time in San Francisco, staying with my old friend Zach and meeting up with my newer friend Kathyrn, hiking through the mists of eucalyptus forests, marveling at massive figures composed of sculpted driftwood, and eating spectacularly, whether dining on dosas or picnicking in the midst of thousands of Europeans screaming at a gigantic video screen on which men fought over kicking a white ball, but for a proper narrative, let's back up to the time of my last post.

July 4th in Montreal was a simply beautiful day. The Jazz Festival performed an Homage de Paul Simon that night, and I was able to enjoy the sound check while I breakfasted on crepes in the Place des Arts. I have been told to be more goal-oriented, so I set the McAuslen Brewery and its canal-side terrace as a directed target. but both my host and guidebook had neglected to mention (Daniel claims ignorance; Moon Guide -- what's your excuse?) that the canal is quite long (evidently it was once used to transport goods), and that the walk from the Plateau would take in excess of two hours. As it was a pleasant day, I got to soak up some architecture, from the twisting and turning grey stone-carved canyons that are the Old City's cobbled streets to the behemoth silos of the post-industrial canal, which, slowly rusting, provide a backdrop of strange aesthetics to the waterfront park, exposition centers, and bike path, along which I walked until, at long last I reached my destination. The beers were excellent, and, as a bonus, there was a nearby gourmet market with all sorts of delectable comestibles for the discerning shopper. Mmmm.... comestibles.

That night, standing in the midst of tens of thousands of Canadians while Elvis Costello and Allan Toussaint sang Paul Simon's "American Tune", an ineffable feeling arose in me that I have yet to completely shake; somewhat between nostalgic melancholy and pride, I feel it is a reaction to growing older in this ever-changing world of which each of us is a citizen. It made me want to stay at home this summer, to play handball with the kids in my neighborhood, to spend my days reading library books beneath Prospect Park's stately shade trees, my nights celebrating being a teacher on summer vacation with friends and family, dancing to live music and laughing, full of life, until the dawn. Yet, I had planned an amazing journey into breathtaking lands to which I had desired to return since last I was there -- why the ambivalence? I am unsure. Love of Brooklyn, a sense that I have a real community there on which I turn my back for a significant portion of each year. Maybe I should just suck it up and get air conditioning and stop pawning off my sweatbox on hapless subletters for the hottest months of the year.

So here I am, 24 hours before heading to San Francisco International Airport to participate in the combustion of a small portion of the Earth's ever-diminishing supply of jet fuel to explore some of the planet's most amazing regions, geologically and culturally, poignantly aware that my mother country is full of geologic wonders, that our continent, nay, my hometown is home to flourishing cultures very different from my own, and I wonder if this might not be my last trip overseas for some time.

So I am prepared to soak it up once more, to simply enjoy being out there, to meet fantastic people and rely on pantomime to acquire the necessities of life, to eat incredibly well for pennies, and by losing the responsibilities of home, wiping the slate clean, so to speak, hopefully to gain the ability to discern in its reflection some faint forms, a path, some wisdom with which to return and apply to Brooklyn life. If you want a postcard, you'd better email me.