In a city where they mumble in a language that is not mine, I feel at home, I wait for a train on a station that’s grittier than Grand Central. The people that surround me are quiet, it is the morning rush hour, and we all have a place to be, I am crossing the border and I am crossing back to my native country, in ten minutes the language around me will be my native, with ha horrible south accent.

I am about to cross a bridge, I will cross water and I will look out the window and I will be home, but far from home, I have fallen in love with the gritty city on the other side of the sound. A place where you still can find apartments with shared bathrooms in the hallway, a place were the perfection of the society didn’t reach, not all the way.

I am not perfect, and I can find a peace in the absence of perfection, in the grittyness, in the drunk Greenlander on the street and a slight continental colonial air that surrounds the smoking hooker on the corner. Perfection and the search for such makes me choke and hide, I am everything but perfect, so I have been told, over and over and over again...