reminiscing

from an old journal i revisited tonight:

2.21.02

I am on my way to London, hopefully headed in the right direction. I got on the train to Malmô to find that I could go no farther than the entrance. It's crammed full of people. There is a family of sweet grandparents and three blonde, blue-eyed, lilting-voiced, young girls. An older girl is with them, lovely and beautiful in that European sort of way, but with kind eyes. That is not common. I am balancing on Elly's backpack with my toes against the wall in front of me. I understand the children. They're making a fort of scarves.

There are two thick army boys with their buzzed heads and hardened eyes. A gay man with a tight, black uniform and beautiful features squirms out of the bathroom. His eyes are fearful and tender and sad. I wonder what he has known. The wire waste-basket is above my knees, spilling out milk cartons and universal McDonald's cups leaking leftover coke. The little girls sing made up songs in the dancing language as the sun flashes into our cramped cabin. I feel God's tender heart.

I actually made it. To Malmô at least. How wonderful it will be to be among people who speak English again. As I was on the bus, watching the neighborhoods blink past in the dark sky, I thought I was in San Rafael again. How odd to forget you are on one side of the world. There is a man in gray, sagging around the edges with hair that is to young for him, flirting cockily with the information woman inside the glass box. His teeth are chipped in front as he smiles. I wonder if she finds them attractive.