A Dispatch from Cologne, 13 Months In
We joked about casseroles and politeness and the American Midwest. Then he asked me how I like Cologne.
We joked about casseroles and politeness and the American Midwest. Then he asked me how I like Cologne.
The woman in the white sedan will go home, call her best friend, and say: “I started crying in the drive-thru today, and they gave me extra napkins.”
Its branches bloomed with little white, fuzzy pearls that I thought were baby rabbits being born.
“All the lonely people / where do they all come from? All the lonely people / are they actually as lonely as they look or are they just having a bad day?” – Paul McCartney and me
I’ve never quite understood the call of the West, a siren song so strong that some will risk—and lose—their lives to follow it.
I reach for something on the floor, feel a breeze on my chest, and we both realize why the shirt has been so long closeted. “Oh,” I say. “Damn.”
Here I am, commuting by car into the big city. Here I am, one half of a white couple in an immigrant town. Here I am, trying to live honestly in an unfamiliar place, with imagination and empathy.
“When I’m feeling tired, when I’m feeling upset, when I don’t want to get out of bed, you know what I say? I. Love. My. Life.” She paused, looked at us, and yelled, “I LOVE MY LIFE!”
Third shift at a hotel is a unique experience. I get to see the raw, unvarnished self of people. The truth behind their public façade.
The sun keeps rising everyday, whether you wake early to see it or not. (Every now and then, you should wake early.)