"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>bing crosby and a club car

>the overnight train from valencia to lisbon (via madrid) invoked oxygenated memories of bing crosby, danny kaye, and rosemary clooney singing about vermont all night in the club car.

sitting at a sleek bar with randy australians and a familiar face nikki from a past hostel, the train flew over 200 kms an hour. well past midnight the bebidas were flowing along with the watery tongues and busy fingers. we ranted and giggled all night about everything that rests in the space between feminism and DVDA.

we awoke an hour behind the times in a city burning with brilliance and sky. nikki and i walked the morning streets that my ancestors called home, and ate lush mouthfuls of sweet deserts on a café patio bustling with 1950s trams and chouriço.

i am practising my portuguese that i’ve grown up admiring.

obrigada.

tudo bem.

nao falla portugues.

my aguedan last name opens doors for me and i swing up to the canadian embassy on aventide de liberdade. my lebanese entry visa that is smudged with mediterranean-barcelonian water is still legible, they tell me, and i shouldn’t have a problem entering the country.

lisbon is my last european hangout, before making the 3 day trek back to budapest to fly over sand dunes, mosques and hijabs to lebanon.

i have been wandering for over a month, and i feel angry at the impending exodus. 10 days, and the thought is sits like rotten eggplant paella in my gut.

toronto is my glorious home, but i don’t think it can contain me anymore.

as bart would say, the world is my toystore.

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