Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas

The Boy is currently in the U.S. of A. My old home. The one of mixed feelings and an avalanche of memories. The one I gift-wrapped my twenties for and offered with all the good faith only a 22-year-old who’s never left home can muster. The one that flung me in the air, picked me up, let me down, set me free, tied me forever. And four years after I left on that flight from Logan, I plead the same pointless questions on repeat: How is it there, tell me… How is it, the vibe… How is it, the feeling… How same, how different… knowing full well that my former Europe-dweller can only see it with the eyes of a frequent visitor while I crave a resident’s perspective. Specifically, my own.

You see, it’s not as simple as buying a ticket and hopping across the pond. Some things are like the unclaimed parcel you know not to touch. So you may wonder, and hanker, but leave well enough alone. And ask questions about the weather and the food and how many pairs of shoes he’s getting you. While you sneak onto Mapquest and roll the names of New Jersey townships off your tongue. Parsipanny, New Brunswick, Cherry Hill. Moorestown,Trenton and Belle Mead. Signboards from another lifetime, because hey, you were an upstate New Yorker, hicktown Pennsylvanian, too-proud Bostonian and Jersey’s for the desis with their H4 wives. And then you listen to John Mayer singing this

(via MM) and something forbidden unfurls deep inside and you know the marshland has begun and you’re one foot in.

The Boy comes back late tonight. And I’ll ooh and aah over my shopping list. But all I’ll be wondering is how it is there… tell me… How is it, the vibe… How is it, the feeling…. How same, how different… And some part of me will be glad not to know.