Day One: Jet Lag

There's graffiti here.
TSA crushed my identity and I'm someone else now.
Chewing Winterfresh. Cruising in a Prius, a car so electronic just press a button to park.

It's the little things that make this trip what it is. I'm amazed at the kinds of unique culture a state can have. It's incredibly structured here.

First thing I notice is how my cousin has changed. He's wearing American Eagle and flip flops. He highlighted his hair. Never thought he would care about those things three years ago, when I last saw him.

We drive off, my grandfather and uncle in the front. We get lost a few times and my cousin wishes he had brought Nicole. He named his GPS system.

We're going to visit a dying person. But when we show up, she's just very sick. Her name is Irene, and I meet her husband Takie. They are both Greek immigrants who escaped a depression in Greece in the '80s. A trip that should've lasted six months, stretched into 16 years. Now they live here, more fluent in Greek than English.

I have never been exposed to this specific kind of culture before and I decide that Greek is one of the most beautiful languages human beings are capable of. It's almost as if I can understand what they're saying, but not quite. Tone and body language are the same. The words the same color and shape.

I met a nice woman who was born Greek and raised in London. She gushed about it. My family talked about plans to visit Greece and Africa and I felt grounded again. By which I mean, I'll never be able to travel enough. I never want to stay in the same place for long.

We give this sick woman flowers and pray over her. If it wasn't for a car accident that blocked the highway for an hour, my family would never have brought me along. Blessing in disguise? Or is that really sick?

I passed out once or twice. Lost myself in another dream of Art One. If you want something and you dream of something, does that make it special?

Baby stories. I like them because they are a relic of the past that no one but the parents, relatives, chaperones can remember. I certainly don't.

The smell of the kitchen. The way the ice tastes. The smell of the lake. The creaks in the floor. I've been here a million times in expanded memory. In a dream. Does that make it special?

Met a woman named Saka from Bosnia who gave us a type of cake I've never had before. It was incredible. I don't know the name.

My grandparents own a cottage next to their house that they rent out to tourists. Until June 28th, I get this beautiful house all to myself. I feel like I'm on a writer's retreat.

My grandma really is trying to hook me up with a nice Bosnian girl. She's not terribly attractive, according to my grandma but she's moderately attractive. I laugh and my gaze goes out the window. She's smart though and you should move here and go to college here and. . .

But I'm going to pass out again.

Pictures.