There was a long night on a plane diverted through Dakar, then out from West Africa. A day in Paris, an hour watching the sun on the windows of Notre Dame. On the night bus to Munich, the man behind me shared the food his sister had given to him. Two days ago I was in a dust storm in Bamako, and this afternoon I walked alone through Dachau in perfect weather.
This morning, I stood on one leg in a European restroom and tried to wash the sand off my feet, then painted my toenails pink. Standing, now, amongst the teenagers in an Apple store in Munich. I’m content, somehow, traveling farther east, carrying a bag of tiny apricots, e-mailing my father before the late train to Budapest.