race

I am quitting my life for something new

i am quitting my life for something new in europe.
the one-way ticket is to copenhagen, but i think i will not stay there.
the hope is to get work under the table if not over (visa?), and looking at the little mermaid statue does not present the kind of learning curve i seek in a professional undertaking.
also it’s starting to be baloney that i’m not proficient in a second language, and danish is probably not the one to invest in.
also i have been cold for fifteen years, more or less, since shortly after the arrival of that great letter from princeton, so probably i will make my way south to somewhere sweatier.
somewhere less prevailingly white.
somewhere that it’s okay for me to have a mustache.

whole row to myself

Is there any way I am so lucky as to have the whole row to myself on this overnight flight from Kennedy to Copenhagen?

The cartoon passengers in the Norwegian Air safety video are so white as to arouse my suspicion. Also the oxygen masks in premium seats reportedly require some additional action, some pulling of a cord, that those for economy seats do not. Suffocate the rich? Interesting.

The fat and pale analog humans drinking Coca Cola at eleven thirty at night across the aisle are staring as I swallow the Unisom recommended by my gynecologist in lieu of the Ambien prescription I wanted and the half a Klonopin I found among the dregs of some party past and later on learned how to spell.

Ah, here are my rowmates.

Too bad for me.

Perhaps they will be more tolerable for whatever disposition makes them almost unable to make a flight.

absentee host deepak

My absentee host Deepak is quite responsive via text but I am otherwise, on reflection, unsatisfied. The most unforgivable thing — the thing least forgivable! — is the point, moments ago, at which the toilet paper ran out, with no replacement stock in evidence anywhere. I mean, that’s not great as a conflict between flatmates, even, but to put a paying guest in that situation isn’t okay. Now I guess there is an onus to be a white lady on the internet, or find something else at which to point my entrenched entitlement and discontent.

Friends with Danish subtitles

The apartment where I will be cat-sitting for the next few days is fabulous, too fabulous, such that now that the owner has left me and it for Paris, instead of exiting into greater Denmark I am hanging out, eating whatever meal-like arrangements I can make from the contents of her larder and being soothed by the Scandinavian design and unimpeachable blondness in every one of the portraits and watching “Friends” with Danish subtitles, trying to pick up a pronoun or two.

gifted a lighter

I now possess the generous dregs of a Tokai lighter, which was gifted to me by some women whom I sat near in the amphitheater above Freetown Christiania sort of because they looked ethnic — Indian? One polished and blown out, the other messier, pimply, frizzy tight curls, zaftig, gorgeous — and therefore — I assumed — racist! — right? — cool, and sort of because there was a healthy, suitable-for-sitting space between them and the next folks and eventually asked for a light for my spliff.
You need a lighter, the beautiful, voluptuous, un-orchestrated one said, and I said, I arrived yesterday.
Welcome to Denmark, then, she said, handing it to me in a no-takebacks-type way, and I said, A welcome-to-Denmark gift! Thank you.
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