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On different paths
It was the kind of hot that makes you think twice about doing anything at all. I took a shortcut through the Franciscan Garden where the trees bring shade and cool.
The homeless man lay sprawled across the park bench, snoring. His sun-darkened face looked like dried tobacco.
Teenagers sat on the bench across from him debating love over DMs. I wondered if the man ever had those worries.
Caught off guard
It was my freshman year at university. I missed my sister and wanted to surprise her.
Mom and Dad picked me up at the airport and stowed me away at their house. No one else could find out about our clandestine operation.
I sneaked through the cluster of cars in the carport with flutters in my chest. Kim stopped mid-sentence and let out a loud scream.
At the gates
I wanted to get David and the kids through first. They were the priority.
I handed my passport to the officer at the checkpoint at Tunis-Carthage airport. He raged at me in Arabic—about “Qaddafi” and “USA”—over something that happened decades ago.
David and the kids watched from the other side.
And then there was one
He came to me through an advert. In the photo he leaned against his brother and sister.
The village babička passed him to me through the car door in the parking lot where we met. He fit in the palm of my hand. His ears were almost as big as his head.
She wanted us to take two. But we only planned for one.
Sugar highs
I was no fan of mayonnaise. That’s all that came to mind when we drove for an hour to Henri’s Deli: sandwiches slathered in mayonnaise.
Atlantans called it “Andre’s.” The silent French H and throaty r required acts of contortion for any proper southerner.
But I loved the ladies behind the glass cases. They gave me free shortbread cookies with colored icing.
The brand sermon
The recruiter asked me to come right in for a chat with the top guy. It made me feel important again.
The Creative Director spun his nerves into the ring on his wedding finger. He wasn’t looking at a portfolio, but a lovemark on one slide.
I always wanted to buy my Dad a Porsche.
A stop too far
The trains coming from opposite directions zoomed into the Náměstí Republiky metro station. They arrived within seconds of each other.
Stepping out of the train, I took a left toward the escalator. That’s when we almost bumped into each other. He was crossing over the platform to catch the next train back.
We both smiled.
Someone's dinner
Their squawks echoed up and down the street. They carried an urgency that made me look out my window.
There were three of them—all various shades of dark blue. One disappeared through an open window on the third floor, followed by the second. The loudest protested from the street lamp perch, then followed.
I stared at the open window hoping they would come back out.
The breakthrough
I stood streetwise watching. They were from The Netherlands—or perhaps Denmark. No one else could manage a bike in the city like that.
Each of them sat atop a yellow bike. Like offshoots of stems of tulips. Together they formed an impenetrable lattice.
But I managed to make it to the other side.
As the story goes
It happens at the same time every day. Participants rush from work to make it on time.
There’s never enough parking. Shirt tails are tucked in behind open car doors. Flowers are given to lovers and mothers.
Then a visit with the greatest Czech ever.