Out of Place

I’m still awed and discombobulated by the distances we travel. I can picture my daughter’s street in East Oxford as it must appear in this very moment, and the ferries of Norway skimming the fjords, and a certain hillside lattice above the Amalfi coast, laden with lemons. Maybe in the front room of the Hurst Street house the curtains are parted and the afternoon light is shining on the sofa that's draped with the cover they bought in Morocco, bright strips of magenta and deep tangerine, and there's a coffee cup from breakfast on the trunk.

In my uncle's house in Scafati the TV is on, but no one is watching, and Luca wanders in and hurries up the spiral staircase, and there's a cabbage on the table and flowers dropping petals, a clatter of dishes, the barking of dogs. There are stacks of books in an old Welsh farmhouse, boots by the door, and a view of green hills through a window above the kitchen sink. The snow is melting into waterfalls in Sogn og Fjordane, and an old man is sweeping leaves from a walkway by a little white church and tending to the flowers on the graves

.I can see these faraway things with stunning particularity, conjure up the smells and sounds, close my eyes and recall a different kind of sunlight, a different kind of sky. I cannot believe I was so recently there, and now I am adrift in the zone of home, feeling not so much embraced as displaced. I can hear coyotes howling in the canyon even as I type this, not a welcome home sound, but a reminder that I am the stranger.

I guess my mind and body have simply not yet realigned with the place that I am in. I feel tired, still searching for a signal, groping around for solid ground. I experienced a fleeting moment of congruency when I got on my bicycle the other day and coasted down to the main road: that good familiar push of pedal, then wheeling along by hazy sea and coastal chaparral, inhaling the freshness of salty air and scent of straw, the intersperse of effort and momentum both calming and exhilarating. I’m happiest when in motion, I guess, not so intensely aware of being out of sync with the world if the world is a pale blur whirring by.

Call it jet lag, if you will, but it seems to be taking longer than it should.