From the archive, an essay about the sorrow of migration: I missed the noise of traffic outside my bedroom window; the early morning bell-ringing, itinerant preachers by whom I set my clock; the heat which often sent me scampering for an air-conditioned room. I found this place too quiet, too cold. It often felt as if I had walked into a freezer. Or into a mortuary for the living. I missed being among the familiar. Being where I was not conscious of making a cultural faux pas; where I was not pretending to enjoy the meal.
Posted on: Sun, 11 Jan 2015 02:00:01 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015