Blog
Hold on for dear life
The taxi driver arrived late. He blamed the rain. I swore too much.
He hadn’t lived in Boston long, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt as he sped into the curve at the Mass Ave Underpass.
A stream of headlights. The taxi skidded sideways.
Future perfect
All the other kids watched cartoons. I tuned in to Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
Every Saturday, Dionne Warwick’s voice lulled us into a world of champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Private helicopters swooped in. Precision German cars wove through Alpine roads.
I still sing the opening theme song.
She was never here
The American girl could be heard from the other side of the tram. The whiny, drawn-out last syllables were the first clue.
I gathered that she was attending university here in Prague. But she couldn’t wait to be back in Portland. There she could get Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups and butternut squash ravioli.
Had she tasted anything here?
Birthday three ways
A gardenful of us were there to celebrate our Golden Jubilarian. Everyone loves Annamária.
The serenade to her started with “Happy Birthday.” The next round with “Hodně štěstí, zdraví.” A sparkler began to crackle over the cake that contained all the gluten.
Then something that sounded like “Bulldog.”
Get me out of here
The sun had set. Downtown Victoria didn’t seem like an island paradise anymore.
A gang of men lined the stairs, drunk and high. Inside my hotel room I propped the chair against the door and clutched my Blackberry.
In the morning I would go get him from the hospital.
The silence between us
I went to visit Babi Jana again. Her hair whiter than ever, lips tucked in behind her teeth.
From the beginning she had hated me. She would not volunteer as much as one dobrý den. I held her hand as she sat on the couchbed and leaned against the walker.
“I didn’t expect it to end this way.”
Out for a stroll
I was in a hurry to get to the checkout at Delmart, but the aisle was blocked by a stroller.
I stood behind a mom with her baby and faux everything. She examined the differences in each baguette. I felt trapped.
At the register, I looked at the stroller. Something furry eyed me back.
Too messy for my taste
It was Sunday morning. Žižkov was its usual sleepy self.
Grease bubbles burst with the aroma of bacon. I cracked a few eggs into the pan. Then I opened my window to let all those scents out.
In the construction zone across the street, a man crouched with pants around his ankles.
Impossible lessons
I was 13 and wanted to learn piano. And I wanted to start with Chopin.
My new teacher calibrated the metronome and tapped a Virginia Slim out of the soft pack. She’d strike the song book with her pointer and I would flinch.
I told my parents her house was too smoky.
These streets
I could hear her wail from across the street, followed by words trying to escape between the crying. She struggled to lift her phone to her face.
There was something about staying in the bomb shelter. Then she demanded a promise from the other end not to come out until it was safe.
These streets had seen something like this before.