pilot light

This diary-style account of my trip to Europe from January 18th (despite the trip having started on the 13th) to February 1st is largely inspired by an interview between Wes Anderson and Susan Morrison, initially published in The New Yorker and subsequently in the nonfictional anthology, An Editor’s Burial. The interview, titled “The Pilot Light (Or: Missing Something Left Behind),” was structured around Anderson’s film, The French Dispatch. Two central ideas from the interview stayed with me and influenced my decision to keep a journal over my travels. The first was introduced by Morrison, invoking Harold Ross (The New Yorker’s founding editor), who said “when you’re out of your element, or in another country, you have a different perspective. It’s as if the pilot light is always on.” The second was Wes Anderson quoting Nescaffier on his experience as a foreigner: “seeking something missing, missing something left behind.” Given the title of the interview, Morrison also correctly realized that those were the most arresting thoughts present in their conversation. This project is my dramatic way of making three weeks feel like a life and maybe the perfect way of remembering. Leave nothing behind, even if I’ll never see it all. 

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J’ai acheté ce cahier lundi dernier. Aujourd'hui est le jeudi 18 Janvier 2024. Je suis à Milan, en Italie. Et je suis un peu triste. Mais c’est un bon voyage. My friend and traveling companion over the past few days left this morning. I am lonely and I miss her. Paris was a lot of fun and I am not entirely sure if I can make it through the next two weeks alone. At least not with my sanity intact. I am going to chronicle what I’m doing and my thoughts over the remainder of this trip, mainly in an effort to spur some type of inspiration, writing wise. The internal highlight of the trip, outside of the obvious potential for new experiences, has been the uncertainty surrounding what I will do next creatively. I am blessed. I saw the Louvre. The fucking Louvre!! And the Eiffel Tower. The Crazy Horse show was so dope, it gave me some solid ideas as well. The French vibe was just so totally intoxicating and arresting, visually as well as the calm aura of the city. Really, truly, slid into that pace of life. Milan has been so different. It’s been cloudy but it’s also just as beautiful. The complete language divide (between the Italians and I) has been very alienating for me (as opposed to the elementary understanding of French I have). But overall, it was great when I had company. Without? Who am I? You know. This isn't so interesting right now. But just roaming around felt magical. I was drunk as fuck the other night. I drank a full bottle of chianti in like twenty minutes and my innocent liver almost fell out of my ass. I think I’m still dealing with the headache to be honest. Right now I am reading Chasing Me To My Grave by Winifred Rembert. I felt silly sitting around being sad for myself when someone like him had truly been through so much. He survived a lynching, I’m sad on vacation in Milan. Like? Boo-hoo? You had to spend a day in a Milanese laundromat then go eat pasta by the river and yesterday you spent the day at an arresting art gallery with a good friend. Fondazione Prada was OD fun. There were so many inventive pieces, it inspired me to create- both with my words and to create a system of being. I am desiring more again. 

I just soaked in the hot tub for about an hour. I’m still kinda sad and dreading tomorrow. Hopefully my mood and/or disposition changes. I got some Italian comic books today and I bought a French edition of Naruto the same day I bought this tiny notebook. I’m not sure why I put off writing for so many days. I think I’m beginning to find the whole thing embarrassing, which is troubling. ROME TOMORROW!!

It is 2:28 AM on January 19th, I’m watching a shitty movie (Friends With Benefits), about to eat Gelato. I should be asleep. Am I happy? A lot more than a few hours ago, that’s for sure. It is 9:58 AM, I woke up in segments about twenty minutes ago. The morning is going smoothly. It is 11:44 AM, I have boarded my train to Rome, the hard way of course. It’s so foggy. I arrived in Rome about an hour ago, around 2:30 PM. It’s such an old city and has a very less obvious beauty, it is dirtier as well. I think I miss Milan although I like my hotel room. I didn’t do anything on the train but read Winifred Rembert’s book and inexplicably fall asleep several times. I am very hungry. The Italian countryside was gorgeous. Rome is a lot bigger and dirtier than Milan. I’m thinking about scouring Hinge, not for sex or anything, but just so I don’t have to be alone. Maybe I should go on TikTok like the young people do and find things to do. 

J’ai mangé dans un restaurant dans ce quartier. It was recommended by the concierge of my hotel. “Il Tiempo di Minerva.” Which translates to “Minerva’s Time.” The food was fine, meatballs and pomodoro. But I’m sorta tired, feeling stressed, and dejected. Money and mental health rack my mind, same old same old but in Europe. I took on a lot (with this trip), hopefully not too much more than I could chew. I’m currently unsure if I should just stay-in and chill and relax or go out and see the city. Guilt will likely break me if I stay in this room with these walls. I’ve been trying to experience the cities I’m visiting, repeating “I may never see this again,” over and over again. I will decide what to do after a show. Fruit grows on the trees here, there is an orange tree and a lemon tree just outside my window. I feel like they speak to me. What do they say? 

It is 8:26 PM. I am not going to go out. I am going to rest, take a shower and cut myself some slack. 

It is 11:18 AM and I am finally leaving my room after wasting a full half day recuperating from my last few full days. My thoughts as I awoke about two hours ago then again about an hour ago: I hate the way European toilets are shaped, specifically the bowls. My late start is on-account of my bad habit of watching basketball, now many time zones away. I fell asleep during the initial game I was watching but I woke up around 4 AM and watched until 6:30 AM (Lakers game). I had breakfast in a neighborhood called Trastevere, just off the river. The restaurant is named “Le Levain” but it was more like a bakery. My breakfast was good, even if it left a bit to be desired as far as quantity. I had two little pizzas, two treats, and a wafer covered with fruit. 10 euros. I walked to a museum, Villa Farnesina, but I didn’t go in. I walked to the Sistine Chapel, but I didn’t go in. I walked to a consignment store/record shop named Rough Radio and bought a house mix vinyl record of “Dancing Queen” for two euros. I walked to a bookstore named Otherwise and bought a copy of Books v. Cigarettes by George Orwell. Eleven euros. I walked to the Parthenon. Didn’t go in. I’m at the Coliseum at 3:26 PM as I write this. I’m wearing my violet Hollywood Ranch Market denim jeans, violet Yitai corduroy worker jacket with sunflower buttons, my flower woven bucket hat, and my CPFM chopped Nike Blazers. I look like a blueberry string bean. Most of my walking has been accompanied by Erkyah Badu’s Mama’s Gun and Baduizm in my ears, trying to slow down my heartbeat. Everything is covered with a thin film of anxiety at the moment. I feel as though I am just trying to do enough to not feel guilty for going back to my room. It is sunny and windy and beautiful and I am blessed.  

It’s a bit past midnight and my third in Rome has just begun. Really, I haven’t done much. But I have realized a lot of things. You cannot see all of Rome in a day and whatever day Rome was built was a very long time ago. 

I’m off to another late start today and I’m hungry. Last night for dinner, I went to this place named Trattoria Vecchia Roma. The food was exquisite. I had some fancy mozzarella sticks (with basil), oxtail rigatoni (slightly undercooked but the sauce was to die for), and a side of French Fries because I am childish. The line was very long and the atmosphere inside was jumping, so I had to sit outside next to a heater. A woman on a date at the adjacent table gave me a compliment on my appearance. Today, as I write, I am at this cafè named Materia. It’s quaint and bustling, feels like a Sunday morning. It’s a sunny, still afternoon actually. 58 degrees and when I left the hotel earlier, “Alright” by Zapp playing in my ears, I felt like life and the sun on my face was sharing it with me. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and a cafè latte. I hope it’s good. (UPDATE: it’s good!) 

After I finished my meal, I sat in a courtyard and read the last third of Chasing Me To My Grave, while Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew relaxed my ears and the sun washed my face. I feel lucky. I’ve spent so much time among the elements and they’ve accepted me. 

Rome is a city of ruins, wide streets, cypresses, seagulls, palm trees, stone pines, and funny little cars. I walked amongst them for hours, mainly to the tune of Bob Dylan and Solange, before stopping here at Il Duca, for dinner. It’s a beautiful and warm restaurant, just off the water. I stopped at a few places before coming here, the penultimate spot was a supermarket, where an employee followed me around the store. I’m used to being followed in stores, it’s been happening to me since I was 10. What happened next, however, surprised me. Italy’s brand of racism has been well-advertised to me so fireworks and incorrigible people were built-in to my expectations. The man coming up to me, asking me questions about myself, apologizing for following me, expressing shame, and sharing about himself as well was not. He was from some city in South Italy, some city I didn’t recognize but he mostly wanted me to know that I didn’t do anything wrong. First, in Italian, then in broken English. It was a moment of prejudice, honesty, humanity, and ultimately understanding. I find myself thinking about it now, unable to fathom having made a similar mistake yet feeling his shame alongside him nonetheless. My other stop before Il Duca was back to Otherwise where I bought Ways of Seeing by John Berger. Sixteen euros. An Italian-only bookstore/bar named Underground was across the walkway and I perused their books for a while as well, before deciding not to purchase any of its foreign prose. I ordered the seafood risotto (Risotto alla Pescatora) and the lemon sauteed spinach (Spinaci in padella all’agro). Water (maybe free), bread (finally compris). As I finished my delicious meal, I couldn’t help but look around the room, buzzing with incomprehensible conversation and I feel alone. Adjacent to me, four friends share a bottle of red wine. Ahead of me, two couples on dates. And to my back, are loads of people, who I can only imagine are spending time with ones they love. I look up and notice my table is marked “17.” Lonely Table 17 with your lemon-scented moist towelettes and tiny scribble-laden notebook. I got my check, the bread was not free (lol).

I checked out of my hotel this morning, it was an easy if not rushed process. I was very sleepy on account of my decision to stay up until 5 AM watching the Bills vs. Chiefs (Chiefs won). Check-out was at 10:30 AM, I got out of bed a bit after 9:45 and had to speed-run pack. My outfit is atrocious today. I considered a re-do of yesterday: ash Carhartt jacket, Supreme shirt, Number Nine olive pants, Season 4 Yeezy boots. But I opted for a more relaxed and disoriented look, something more comfortable for my long impending train ride. I took Rome’s metro for the first time, to a pretty neighborhood called Prati, just off Lepanto Station. It reminds me of Harlem. I’d live there if I were to move to Rome. The weather is gorgeous, so I walked from there to a restaurant named Coromandel where I had breakfast. Cinnamon toast, scrambled eggs, and orange juice. The vibes are nice here. I will have a pleasant final day. 

I am reading Swann in Love by Marcel Proust. I hope to still be reading it when I arrive in Paris on Saturday. Or to finish it on that day at least. 

I’ve spent the past few hours listlessly leafing through my book, in the sun, staring at the river and listening to CTRL. It’s slow-moving jade water. There’s a docked tiny boat named “Salvataggio” right across from me. People jog by, bike, walk their dogs. 

 I feel a bit guilty because I wasted my last few hours of Roman sunlight in a big chain bookstore, “La Feltrinelli” (probably their version of Barnes & Noble), mooching off the free Wi-Fi. T-Mobile slowed my data after I hit five gigs. I need Wi-Fi for fast or powerful service until Friday. Travel things. 

I decided to cop dinner, my last in Rome, at Ivo a Trastevere. It’s a pizzeria, I’m getting the Buffalo Bill: tomato, mozzarella, basil, cherry tomatoes, and parmesan cheese. There’s an excited Australian trio of friends sitting just a few paces ahead of me, but aside from that, I am alone at the far end of a packed restaurant. Even still, today, I don’t feel so alone. 

Bonjour! This morning niggas woke up in Brig (Switzerland)! I took the overnight train from Rome to Milan, had a difficult transfer but made it and now I am waiting on the next available train, hopeful to make it to my train to Lyon on time. The trains didn’t have Wi-Fi so that was an obstacle but I got some solid sleep without the allure of American sports. I had a racist and unfortunate experience with a cop rudely pressing me from my sleep and demanding I show documentation. I was confused at first (sleep, language barrier) but once I produced an American passport, his tune changed. I should be having a bad morning, but I’m not. Brig is sunny and has the most beautiful mountain I’ve ever seen. While pushing my heavy luggage up the steep ramp incline, I caught myself staring at its peak and couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like beneath my feet. I was a bit sad, leaving Rome last night. Change always makes me weepy, it usually feels like loss. I’m trying to grow from that mindset. The conductor of the replacement train I’m boarding to Geneva was very kind, he gave me a detailed and careful answer and plan to make up for my mistake (the train to Brig was late and I was taking pictures rather than rushing to my transfer). The rising sun creeps from beyond snow-capped mountains. I feel full. I lose words. 

So, life moves fast. I am no longer going to Barcelona. An unforeseen card malfunction while trying to make my final transfer in Lyon caused the conductors to not let me onboard without a proper reservation and no more trains from Lyon to Barcelona are available for the remainder of the day. So I’m going to Paris! Again? Yes, but early. I have many things to figure out. A potential refund to my Airbnb account seems unlikely, so I’m considering the money simply gone. I’m hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat but a mediocre “orange and strawberry” juice from Pret A Manger. But I’m kinda rolling with it. Nothing can ruin my day after I saw that mountain, that sky, with my own two (eyes). Besides, la campagne de France est très belle. A cozy mix of caverns, cottages, lakes, mountains, and waterfalls. I will hate Lyon forever. I’m tired. I feel stinky. I want to sit and eat. I keep having to remind myself that worse things have happened to better people. 

I finally got to Paris around 7:30 PM, to this Airbnb around 8:30 PM, and this place has bone-chillingly cold shower water.  Maybe I’m a little frustrated? 

I’ve had a long morning but I’m finally sitting down to eat at Le Chinon, the first restaurant I ate at during my first visit to Paris (semaine derniere). I had a pretty good meal last night, billed to my friend Fatimah who’s here concurrently on a work trip. Steak and frites, escargot, snow crab. It was pretty late but this place prides itself on its offbeat hours (Au Pied de Cochon). Fatimah insisted, drunk with merlot and sleep deprivation, that we visit the Eiffel Tower (again) before returning home. I slept for too long and checked out on my own schedule. Laundromat to dry my clothes, barbershop to get a haircut from this kind Nigerian Frenchmen named John (who may or may not have given me a diagonal hairline- I’m leaning towards may), then onto my new hotel. I booked for five nights. After my last day, somehow I (NAJEE AR FAREED) am found craving stability. 

Another morning following a lost night. I like my hotel, it’s spacious and cozy. It’s a place called The Moulin Plaza Hotel. After an extended lounging period, Fatimah and I walked around before I had dinner- deboned quail stuffed with mushrooms and mashed potatoes topped with basil. She just had drinks. And I had one with her. Then we went to a hookah bar/lounge. I don’t smoke anything, so I sort of just sat around and drank too much wine until she was ready to go. And I think I drank two shots of vodka? All I know is that I collapsed into bed as soon as I got back into my hotel room. I awoke this morning with a rumbling in my stomach. Even still, I rotted in bed for about an hour before setting out for my French breakfast. Deux cafés, un croissant, et jus d’orange. “Drive Slow” by Kanye West, “Summers Gone” by Casper Sage, and “One Less Bell To Answer” by The 5th Dimension colored my thoughts as I embraced this wet French morning. Let’s do some living. 

I took a long, hot shower. Much needed and relaxing one to some great tunes. I was starving as well so I went to eat at Le Corner Saint Germain and it was delicious. I ordered the pouyet satay. My waitress was the most pleasant soul, a Tunisian woman named Ramia. She was so kind and lovely, I am likely to remember her for the rest of my life. Afterwards, I went to Album comics, to catch up on my reading lists. About three weeks of comics ran me about 30 euros. Maintenant, je suis dans le musée National d’Art Moderne, sur le cinquième étage. I have seen this entire floor and my favorite piece so far is “Belinda Ade Kazeem-Kaminski with a Purple Lily Fan” by Amoako Boafo, a Ghanaian painter. Here is my best quick doodle of it: 

I have the copy of John Berger’s Ways of Seeing with me. I wanted to read it but my eyes belong to the art. 

Good morning from London! It’s 10:29 AM local time and I’m at TomTom Coffee House where I just had breakfast: toast, poached eggs, oatmeal, smoked salmon, and americano cafe au lait. The train ride up was pleasant but I watched Notting Hill like an idiot instead of taking a nap. I only slept three hours last night because Fatimah insisted we get drunk and smoke hookah until her 5 AM flight back to the States. I did none of that, but I accompanied her to a few places before crashing around 2:30 AM. The line for the train was long because you actually need to go through customs to go to the UK. I haven’t gotten a good feel for its vibe yet but it seems oddly pleasant. What am I doing here? Time will tell, more living. 

It’s 3:22 PM and I’m in Kensington Gardens, at the Round Pond. After leaving TomTom Coffee House many hours earlier, I went to Belgravia Books, an independent bookstore that’s unfortunately on the verge of being closed for good. They have a clearance sale and books are going for 30% off, so I got three of them: The Old Man and The Sea by Ernest Hemingway, Mountains of The Mind by Robert MacFarlane, and The Rainbow by Yasunari Kawabata. Following my purchase, which ran me about 22 pounds, I walked through St. James Park which happens to be near Buckingham Palace. There are many birds of all kinds: geese, ducks, pigeons, crows, seagulls, pelicans. Le Ville d’Oiseaux vrm!! Even now, many parks away, birds mingle amongst interlopers and the setting sun. I took the Underground to Notting Hill and went to another bookstore/comic book shop: The Notting Hill Book Exchange. I bought Uncanny X-Men #29 from 2013 run and a vintage copy of Confessions of Zeno by Italo Svevo. I thought my consumerism had crested but I happened upon Music & Video Exchange and purchased five vinyl records for 13 pounds. “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child, “Oh” by Ciara, “In Da Club” by 50 Cent, “U Remind Me” by Usher, and “Don’t Think I’m Not” by Kandi Buruss. Hopefully I’m finished shopping, I don’t even know where I’m putting this shit. 

 I guess I’ll write about the latter half of yesterday first. After I left Kensington Gardens, I took the Underground to a fish and chips joint named Golden Union. It was… very mediocre. I liked the neighborhood, SoHo, and London’s iteration of Chinatown. I ate my “food” (cod and fries) in Trafalgar Square, knees crowded to my lap. Afterwards, I took a fast trek through the National Gallery, an art museum where they charge for everything but admission. Its collection was very British but there were some gems and standouts. “Water-Lilies” by Claude Monet and “The Supper at Emmaus” by Caravaggio to be specific. Then the difficult part of my day began. I got back to the train station and due to poorly managed lines, I spent upwards of an hour and half trying to facilitate my way through customs along with about a thousand other people. The train ride was uneventful if not mildly irritating. I got back to Paris around midnight. The majority of my pleasant day had been soundtracked by Road Song by Wes Montgomery, Luv 4 Rent by Smino, and the recent live recordings of Isaiah Rashad’s four favorite Cilvia Demo tracks. In my eagerness to get back to my hotel room and sleep, I rushed into the metro behind someone else, only to be stopped by France’s fare police demanding to see my ticket when I got back to Blanche station. I was unable to produce one and my travel-belabored mind and fatigue-addled lips were unable to find an adequate lie. I was ordered to pay a fine or (it seemed) go to French jail. I chose the former. It was an amount in sync with the remainder of my cash for my food budget for the weekend. To be honest, it felt cruelly unlucky. I stood at Blanche station in stunned silence for a while, trying to find emotions. My mind went back to a homeless man at Barbés-Rochechouart station de metro who asked me for money or to buy him something from the vending machine. I was stressed about my upcoming rent payment and the remaining expenses of the trip, so I said no, clutching onto what remained. Now, it’s gone. All of it. I wonder if that was my punishment, the only mercy the fare officer took on me was that I should be sure to remember my ticket next time. “How Much Does A Dollar Cost?” by Kendrick Lamar enters my mind. Back at my hotel, I sort of just lied in bed and stewed. And slept and continued to do that for the rest of the day. I’ve mainly wasted it. I just woke up wanting to go home, for the first time. Have I overstayed my welcome? The fine just felt so deflating. I do not even miss the money much, the incident stole from my spirit. Of course I was tired and partially understood that I deserve my rest. But am I not in Paris? And not for too much longer either. There’s too much I don’t know. Like the weird (sorta racist) chicken place downstairs, Crispy Soul, is actually pretty good! Et je peux voir la Tour Eiffel depuis un pont à côté de mon hôtel. C’est beau. It was a cloudy day but the sun still shimmered. Writing now, in a restaurant named Le Saint Jean, I appreciate that. I ordered poulet fermier label rouge, purée maison, et sauce au thym. I’m once again alone, but in a new place and with little at my disposal (whatever that means). If I ruin my life now, it won’t last forever but the memory of now can hold me forever. This memory has to last. I must not be destroyed. Food’s here, talk soon. [NOTE: I left before I finished my meal, a mouse ran across my feet and I was NOT seated outside.]  It’s 10:07 PM, Saturday night. I’m in Paris, France. Say it again, aloud this time. 

“ .” 

It’s been a long day but it was nice. I only had one meal, I revisited Crispy Soul and got a chicken sandwich. I went to a vintage sunday market in North Paris and an independent Renegade Art Gallery called Rivoli 59. I mostly just bided my time until I could go home. I’ve mostly felt alone (lately) and the NFL playoffs aren’t helping (lol). I think the main reason I went to Crispy Soul again was to experience some good old American greasy slough-food. Even still, I am so happy to have done this. Amsterdam tomorrow. 

Turns out, I’m not going to Amsterdam today! I awoke to sold out seat reservations for the remainder of the day, the apparent bane of my existence. Even still, I have checked out of my hotel. My bags are staying there as I eat my French breakfast (croissant, jus d’orange, cafè au lait) and await my train to Amsterdam, leaving tomorrow at 6 AM. Do I feel like an idiot? Yes. Am I going to let it ruin my day? I hope not. I really need a vacation from this vacation. 

I read about 25 pages of my book following breakfast, at the corner cafe named “Le Magenta.” The sun is out, the intersection is busy, I feel a modicum of peace. 

I walked from Le Magenta to the Sacre-Coeur and the view was quite beautiful. On the way, I saw a cinema playing my favorite Wong Kar-Wai film, Chungking Express. I stopped by  a record shop. They had a nice collection but I did not make any purchases- I’m all out of space. Up here, atop a staircase that rivaled the one from John Wick 4, I can see all of Paris. It seems shrouded in smoke and gleaming promise. Of what? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just trying to keep a positive attitude. I’m listening to The Free-Wheeling Bob Dylan. 

I’ve walked to the 10th arrondissement and it’s a nice neighborhood. I think I would enjoy living here. It has a laid back beauty, even now, as I stroll astride Canal St. Martin. The lightness of the day has returned, like stones from my chest. Three graffiti kittens wink at me from across the street. I could be anywhere right now, in fact I should be elsewhere. But I’m here and it’s a welcomed curse… of abundance, of excess, ease, and unfamiliar. Better yet- unforeseen beauty. I’m in a French art bookstore/gallery. There are labels on each book, “photos interdites dans les livres” or “photos are forbidden in the books.” It’s vibrant with color, quiet music hums from the radio overhead. 

I took a late evening stroll through Chatelets to Centre Pompidou, my second visit. But I didn’t visit any exhibits, I just read while mooching the outlets and free Wi-Fi. A beautiful and kind French woman who works at the museum guided me to a secluded area where I could charge my phone after watching me stand near an abandoned outlet near the coat check. 

I have walked to Waly-Faly, a Senegalese restaurant in the 11th arrondissement. I’ve been here once before with Michaela and the food was very good so I wanted to indulge again before departing. I walked nearly 40 minutes here on a rumbling stomach, eager to eat (time and food). Gare du Nord ouvre à 4h30. Seven more hours. The plan, as of now, is to live out my Jesse Wallace (from Before Sunrise) fantasies and spend the night bouncing around town before my sunrise train to the Netherlands. The waiter at Waly-Faly coolly let me sit down sans reservation, and I will appreciate him for the rest of my life. I ordered the chicken yassa. It comes quickly. 

La confiture était très incroyable. Mais je mange trop vite et je dois partir bientôt. My bad, the chicken was so good it got me writing in French [haha, I crack myself up]. I am still hungry despite the generous portions but I have dessert plans elsewhere. 

Today is my last day in Europe. I spent the night amidst the yellow Paris lights, watching the moon wash it all blue. But I didn’t take notice of much in the city but the shadows. I was worried about something else happening, another delay, but I’m at Gare du Nord, about to board my train. I will miss a lot of things about Europe. Some stupid, some valid. Things I will miss: way too many bakeries, ashtrays adorning the outside seating (neglected by me), French TV, rivers running through cities, seeing new somethings, learning new public transports, flexing foreign cash on the gram.  

I am at the gate in Amsterdam, prepared to depart back to New York. My Eurostar train was very old and the seats didn’t recline and was 45 minutes late but I still arrived with ample time to spare. At the baggage check, I was overweight so they tried to get me for an additional 140 euros on top of the 60 bucks I already paid to check my bag. Yeah right! I re-allocated much of my stuff into my carry-ons. Not going for it again. I never luck out and get a gate close to the entrance, so it was a lot of walking but I’m here. I’ve been listening to the audiobook for The Will To Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks all morning. Tryna remain calm, rest my spirit. But I think my body needs recovery time from my odyssey yesterday. I have only eaten an overpriced yogurt parfait. It is 12:49 PM, boarding starts in six minutes. 

Regrettably, I did not get to see much of the Netherlands. From the window of my train I could make out farms, windmills, and ducks moving about irrigation canals. Amsterdam promised to be an adventure. Next time. 

My fight was really long (nine hours, I just got a passport and ain’t been nowhere). Jetblue did not deliver on their promise to provide free Wi-Fi but there were heaps of free food to compensate. The travel from JFK to my Harlem apartment proved more burdensome than anything I endured in Europe. Of course my bags were no joke on public transport but it was compounded by an intense fever I picked up (or realized) on the flight. A kind stranger helped me lift my bags up the less than accessible steps of my station (or the one nearest to my apartment building). Upon seeing my bedroom, I felt no distance, as if I had just been there the day before when the reality was due to my trips to extended Atlanta and Europe, I’ve only spent 2 of the last 40 days in Harlem. But I felt like I was at home. That’s what home is right? Familiarity without contempt. 

After all these days, I am left wondering what good all of this did. Three weeks of cavorting around Europe drinking too much coffee and wine, writing, reading, museums, bookstores, record shops, walking until my calves burst, and eating enough escargot to make a crab green (I’m not sure which other animals eat snails). I started this project because I wanted to see if I can bridge the gap between objective observations in a  new foreign environment and subjective experience. In many ways, that is what fiction is, subjective experience. And writing wise, I feel like I’ve been a bit foggy lately. Not even blocked. It’s open. The road is available. Just foggy. My mind wanders to Paul Thomas Anderson’s 2012 film, The Master, when Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character swaps out the term “recall” for “imagine,” much to the dismay of Laura Dern’s character. Recollection is sacred because it is something that has happened in the most concrete sense and often can be shared with others. Imagination lives off somewhere undisclosed either to come in the future just for you or not at all. And while most functioning adults are afforded the capacity to tell the difference between the two, when it comes to writing they’re impossible to disconnect. Maybe my fog was comes from my growing inability to notice the texture of stone grooves flanking the roof of my apartment building. I fell into a routine (job, desire, satisfaction). I stopped noticing the little things and as a result, the little things became harder for me to imagine. It sounds simple, no grand revelation, no new ground being broken. A nigga can’t read Swann in Love and pretend he’s discovered Proustian recovery. But after all that time spent away; where I imagined myself as some sexy mixture of Wes Anderson, James Baldwin, and Anthony Bourdain, I hope I at least remembered how to see. 

[To Be Rather Than To Seem]