Tuesday, November 23, 2004

Costa Rica, Rivas

I suddenly became homesick for Russia this morning. I was laying in bed in Costa Rica reading a novel set in New York City, listening to a weedwhacker running outside and feeling the tin roof slowly heat up with the sun and thinking of getting up in a few minutes and picking some oranges off the trees in the yard and squeezing some orange juice. Then I missed Russia. I thought, it's November, and I've seen Russia in all of the other months, but never November. I thought of the frozen rivers, and the dark skies, walking the cities of Russia, all the concrete, the people wearing fur, the ice cream, the electric trolleybuses. Blue eyes framed by darkened eyelashes. Frozen breath clouding faces when they speak, in that language, lilting along. I'll send some email later today to Russia, to California, to France, to other corners, I decided.