There is this song by Billy Joel, Vienna, and some of the people closest to me have suggested its relevance to my own experiences in life. Maybe I am burnt out. Maybe I have pushed myself to hard. But my motivation, my passion, seems so subued these days. The only, single thing I crave is to write. I want to write in the moments when the sky is dusty and dusky and the earth is wet beneath my feet. When I feel like I am in Europe, the moments that bring me back to Berlin, to the Paris rain, to the reality that I will be moving to England. I want to write in the moments that I trip on the stony streets, that I shiver in the shadows, that I feel far away from home and the moments when I feel I am somehow, somewhat at home.
There were greasers on the street, with slick leather jackets and slicked-back hair. I never imagined these 1950s creatures would come to life on the tall streets of Bariloche, these creatures I have only seen in Danny and his lightning brothers, in plays and maybe dreams.
The restaurant we ate at last night had trees growing through the ceiling, a vegetarian waitress serving Parilla and an elf door. The elf door has certainly made its mark on my list of favorite things, along with the pampas grass, the cerulean lakes, out of focus mountains, media lunas, cafe dobles, yerba Mate, glass earrings, bueno as an introduction, bright eyes, pink building facades, the idea of red beer, the reality of red wine and siestas.
I am excited to visit the volcano town with hot springs and hikes. I am excited to hear Chilean Spanish and to fall in love, as I know I will, with yet another lugar.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
