I REMEMBER reading in my German-English dictionary that the word “gift” in German means “poison.”
I REMEMBER giggling like a little boy when I realized the wine on my flight from Paris to Berlin was free.
I REMEMBER playing “N*ggas in Paris” on my iPhone while I stood in front of the Louvre.
I REMEMBER running down Gran Via in Madrid with hundreds of fans after Spain beat Italy in the EuroFinal.
I REMEMBER seeing a flamenco performance in the shadows of Barcelona’s Picasso Museum.
I REMEMBER my eyes stinging from all the second-hand smoke in the cafe across the street from my apartment in Paris.
I REMEMBER walking into a room in Versailles and not understanding why everyone was looking up until I did the same and saw the fresco on the ceiling.
I take this road to arrive at its end
where the toll taker passes the night, reading.
I feel the cupped heat
of his left hand as he inherits
change; on the road that is not his road
anymore I belong to whatever it is
which will happen to me.
from "After the Grand Perhaps" (one of my favorite poems) by Lucie Brock-Broido