I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien. And the only words I am confident enough to say in Spanish mean I'm sorry, I don't understand. And I am perfecting the sorrowful expression of profound stupidity and helplessness that accompanies my predicament. At least when Sting hit the Big Apple, everyone else spoke English. I don't know how to order a cup of tea, my dear, let alone start worrying about my preferred method of toasting bread. I don't necessarily look foreign, so no-one accounts for my ignorance or inability to communicate. And I don't know anyone, so I can't talk to anyone about it. And that makes you feel a long, long way from home. My flat, that seemed all right when I arrived, fully gripped by cabin fever after the fifteen and a half hour flight, is starting to resemble the kind of place where people are kept under 'house arrest.'
Saturday and Sunday were two long days when all this began to weigh me down, and I couldn't help asking what the fuck I was doing. Running away from making a decision about what to do with the rest of my life? Definitely. Crazy? No doubt. Gonna buy a ticket home and ditch the round the worlder? Maybe.
What a difference a day makes; twenty four little hours.