language at the edges of

until i flew to london, the farthest i had been was nova scotia (where Z is from, and is a magnificent snow-city) and that was just in the last two years. i had no idea what was in store for me with travel. i had no idea about cities of crinoline-light and loveliness. i had never eaten a real crepe, which, when you have them with coconut and nutella inside, are like more-solid snowcones. (and there is nothing, nothing, like their sugar-love as you walk to the metro on the way to a market adventure). i never knew that people really carry baguettes. everywhere. even men in hard hats. i never knew to say pardon me, instead of excuse me (the latter is considered sarcastic). i had never been on a tube/metro alone (it's very freeing).


now, i've moved to london and visited paris in just over a month. and i have been stung/bitten/ singed, by the lightning-bug of travel. i am a waking-walking-breathing-night-dream of travel. i unravel scenes of turkey, of visiting Z's sister lauren in italy, of whole continents that may not even exist. i invent schemey-dreams which involve deliciousness & picnics on island ends; public metered bicycles you can ride one place and leave in another; late slurry nights of wine-drinking; beds in strange flats with amazonian artifacts (this happened in paris, so it is only in the dreams as part of the grounded-already-happened bit).


but for real, right now, on this super-chilly & unravel-y grey morning, i am so happy to be in our flat in london (even if it is such un petit bateau, even if it is mostly heatless). i am writing. and the writing is one of the most amazing parts about travel. the part where it feels like traveling all over again. so for now (though i do promise to post on paris and more on london directly) i am busy building stanzas on the beautiful-sharp edges of where i've just been.

{images via here/blackeiffel via v., and unknown}