Skip to main content


the immigrant and the exile

The expatriate remains patriotic - loving their country from a distance. Their loyalty does not waver.

The immigrant is a foreigner that works in another country as a result of some form of escape, some desperate act.

The exile does not love their country, and it can be said that their country rejected them.

Which one wakes up homesick?

Which one can shrug off the betrayal, the long shadow of the dream of a better life when it sours and fades?

There are days when  I see no difference between the immigrant and the exile, two sides of the same coin. The expat is a blind romantic, their decisions set as young men and women, their senses dulled to nothing. I have started to understand I am not an expat any more, as I do not love my country. I tolerate it.

Home again, home again

The airport is pungent, smelling of every perfume all at once, Chanel and Gucci and ammonia and cigarettes. Faces are relaxed, wandering the duty free with time to kill.

We sat on the bed this morning, staring at ourselves in the mirror. I always rest this way for at least a minute before traveling. A superstition but also a meditation on good moments to come. You in your green scarf, fighting to stay awake, already worried about traffic.


In NYC the tourists are blissful, ignorant and lost. They ask me to take their picture on Broadway and 5th Avenue. They ask me directions, about where to go for lunch. The New Yorkers, the lifers, are stomping around in flip flops, beating the heat. They are buying things for their apartments from Pottery Barn, maybe a piece of wood that will prop up something terribly important. I glimpse their fragile, magnificent lives. Two different young women are sobbing, one in heels late at night, the other with keys clutched in her hands on some stairs.

I eavesdrop on conversations.
"No, I can't get her a cat."
"I'm worried what he really means is..."
"...and then my hormones changed after a year of the injections..."
"But then if we go there, she never will."

Their voices are measured, confident. Every word is pronounced like the narration for an imaginary PBS documentary. Accents are clean, pauses are long and dramatic - interrupted by horns and street vendors, by thundering garbage trucks and ambulances.

Two girls chatter on the corner of Broadway and 13th Street.
"I was like I was exiled, but I wanted to be there." She said.
On some days I could say the same, I thought.

There is a rooftop party on Saturday night, a penthouse with a pool on the 30th floor. There are models with boyfriend troubles, guys drinking Red Bull and vodka, coffee tables with giant photography books. The moon hangs fabulously low behind the Empire State Building just a few blocks away. The people and the cars are flittering along the orange lit streets below.

And after hangover cures the next day, after the sun slams down the avenues and I am cooking away, my feet know where to go. I can close my eyes and navigate the streets. I feel clean, simple. I am an empty cup. I find the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. I stare into the brackish water, at a tourist cruise puttering towards the harbor. The wedding ring is in my pocket - something I thought I had gotten rid of a long time ago. But it was in my closet somehow, in the darkness between rolls of unexposed black and white film and expired credit cards.

It is heavy in my hand. Scratched, unfamiliar. I wore it for almost 7 years. The first day it clanged against everything, making tiny bell sounds.

It makes no sound, slipping into the dark water.


This is beautifully written. Leaves the reader slightly sad, but teh reader definatey doesn't regret reading it. Also, teh way you describe the atmosphere and vibe of NY that night makes me feel like I was there too - quite cool.
Anonymous said…
Pretty good post. I just stumbled upon your blog and wanted to say that I have really enjoyed reading your blog posts. Any way I' ll be subscribing to your feed and I hope you post again soon.
Rabbit blogger said…
thanks "anonymous" - i post every monday, around moscow afternoon/US morning. i am always curious to get your thoughts/reactions....

Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs