It’s my first day back in Bucharest and the city smells like linden blossoms. Linden blossoms, honeysuckle, and overripe mulberries. Like me, the city has a hint of something that is too much, and like me, it treats its excesses and neuroses with humor. We resonate with each other in this way. I felt immediately that my connection with this poetic yet neurotic metropolis was intact. Here I can be my most frivolous spoiled rotten self, also playful and fun. I took a long walk by myself. The city seemed submerged in the type of Saturday afternoon peace that I both like and dislike. It reminded me of how I don’t want to live here as much as I’d like to have a life here – those are two very different things. A life involves an entourage and places to go and things to do. A life is a complicated contraption that will allow stolen moments of poetry. Poetry’s better when stolen than when actively pursued. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. I can enjoy the linden flowers and the plethora of tabby cats. I can buy books and eat cherries. I do not really have a life here, but I consider urban pigeons my friends. I have friends with wings and that’s awesome.
