Lamentations of a Chronic Traveler

Cultured Narratives

(Written in February 2013)

How else do you say it without laughing?

She wore clothes typical of an average American woman her age. Nothing elaborate, usually dull– although her wardrobe was overflowing with colorful garments from overseas. Her closet was filled with the aromas of India, Kenya, Turkey, Italy, Australia, China, Japan, Canada, Mexico, and Spain. Mainly Spain. That’s where her heart was, truly. Despite the tears shed there, love lost, and days of feeling helpless, Spain was the only place she felt at home.

It was where she met people who exist now only in her memory, but those people made her feel things she couldn’t feel here. Not in this sad city.

She’d married an Indianan man– not Indian– and bore children of her own who were very typical of the American culture and were very into the whole “I’m better than anyone else, and if I’m not I’m going to make myself better by buying things” philosophy.

She wasn’t, but she played the part well. Deep within her soul, she yearned for the salty scent of the sea, the sun caressing her weary face, and the bright smiles of strangers that used to make her day. In her mind she was content. Not physically, no. But if she could outweigh thoughts of clear blue seas and skies and warm smiles over the gray sky, dead grass, and tired faces surrounding her, she would be happy the rest of her life.


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