Home.

244. On a Jet Airways flight. As we descend, the inflight entertainment system broadcasts a video about Brussels, showing spectacularly picturesque images of parks, of the Royal Palace, of the European Parliament building the glass windows of which sparkle under the bright sun. Watching the montage, I am amused at the art of advertisement, smiling. Anna, on the other hand, expresses her reaction more directly, "What the **** is this?"

245. Traveler, by Adam Zagajewski.

A certain traveler, who believed in nothing,
found himself one summer in a foreign city.
Lindens were blossoming, and foreignness bloomed devoutly.

An unknown crowd walked down the fragrant boulevard,
slowly, full of fear, perhaps because
the setting sun weighed more than the horizon.

and the asphalt's scarlet might not
just be shadows and the guillotine
might not grace museums alone.

and church bells chiming in chorus
might mean more than they usually mean.
Perhaps that's why the traveler kept

putting his hand to his chest, checking warily
to make sure he still had his return ticket
to the ordinary places where we live.

246. Gaston: So did you walk around in New York? 
Me: Well, pretty much everywhere, along Broadway, Times Square, SoHo, Chinatown, Little Italy, Little Russia...
G: Did you go to Little Belgium?
M: No...
G: It's a really well-known place!
M: Really?
G: No.
Grinning, Gaston asks if I would like another piece of his home-baked zucchini and cheese quiche. It feels nice to be home again.

Silence.

202. Where the breath is, by Adam Zagajewski.

She stands alone onstage
and has no instrument.

She lays her palms upon her breasts,
where the breath is born
and where it dies. 

The palms do not sing, 
nor does the breast.

What sings is what stays silent.

Paris I.

142. One of the stranger notes that I have ever written. "I, Gazpacho the Soup, hereby give authorization for the hotel C., at X Rue Y, to charge 200 euros to the credit card of Mr. So-and-So."

Of course, in reality I did not refer to myself as Gazpacho the Soup, but that does not reduce the absurdity of me giving permission for the hotel to charge a credit card belonging to someone else.

143. Temporary home.

144. Twenty-five years, by Adam Zagajewski. To his sister, Ewa.

Your dream pulsed in the depths of time, 
a calm, light breath: so travelers sleep
when overtaken by a brief storm at a station
in Tuscany, in a town with dust and wasps. 

You'd be twenty-five now, 
listening to those songs that I can't stand, 
maybe nursing a newly broken heart, 
and I'd be busy making fun of you.

Your calm dream pulses in time's depths; 
children forgotten by their nurse sleep on like this, 
and never waken, and don't leave
the underwater rooms where dolphins weep.