It seems strange that in a few weeks I'll be back in the United States. I can't tell if it's because I think my time Not There has gone so quickly, or so long. Part of it ties into spending four months identifying, defending myself as an American, and now I face returning to my ancestral home. When in Barcelona, walking up to Park Guell, we passed what looked like a punk house. Written on the roof was 'Why do they call it tourist season if we can't shoot them?'. I was sympathetic; I remember the same sentiment from living on the Shore, waiting and wanting for all the Bennys to leave so the stop signs could be covered again and the beaches empty. But then right after, was a bit of graffiti that said simply enough 'Yankees go home.'

I was angry. I may be an American, but I am no fucking Yankee. A Yankee is the kid in our group who went to Spain with a cowboy hat; a Yankee is someone who doesn't bother to learn the language (not even a please, or a thank you); a Yankee wears socks with sandals.

And since then I've been rethinking how I feel about being an American. Reading 'Into the Wild' only encouraged the questioning, and instilled a desire to road trip across the Pacific Northwest, to boot. And now knowing that I am leaning towards relocating down to Virginia, Williamsburg no less, where I will face tourists, and Yankees and inevitably be North--- the meaning of American hasn't settled down much.

Still, it seems unusual that soon enough my hands will be close to my mother's hands, that I will be able to have lunch with my father and coffee with my friends; that I will see Boston and New York and the same old town I have lived in for much too long. I worry about slipping back into my old ways, and yet not being able to shed the worst habits I picked up here. I must resolve to hold onto the good things- the sense of freedom, and better baking especially- while returning to better habits- running, not eating at all hours simply because I am in the mood to cook- and holding onto integrity. Such a little town, and I am half-afraid of it, convinced it is loaded with weights and claws, everything joined together in a grand attempt to impose stasis.

I'm not really worried about the summer. It sucks that I haven't heard back from internships, but even if nothing turns up, I'm sure I'll find some sort of gainful employment, be it Starbucks or doing some sort of transcribing. Things will come through; they always do.

Music: Broken Social Scene 'Swimmers'

Labels: americano, barcelona, photos, summer, transferring

'.
Fuck that. I had it on the iPod, listened to it once or twice and was finally grabbed.

Then again, I'm sitting here in zombie make up in the dark blogging. I really have no leg to stand on. At all.

I went to the Smithfield horse fair on Sunday. It was surreal and voyeuristic. Basically, it's a horse market held the first Sunday of every month in Smithfield, an industrial area of Dublin, right next to the Jameson factory. On this pavilion next to these new apartment buildings you have kids showing off the horses they keep in their back gardens and Pavee and horse traders, all showing off and selling and buying. And then you have people like me, stumbling around with their cameras a snapping and then going home and screwing around on Picasa and posting them on their blogs to tell other people to go and stumble around with their cameras and then post their pictures.




















Right after snapping this last one, I made eye contact with the boy. It was one thing to take a photo of those eyes on someone else taking a photograph of him, and another to have them turned on you. It's my fault for making eye contact with too many people, trying to see into too much. All I could do was make apologetic eyes and put away my camera.

Labels: dublin, musing, ny times, photos, smithfield

Labels: budapest, dublin, education, language, photos

Labels: belfast, northern ireland, photos

Labels: barcelona, europe, photos, spain