Note From Nowhere
It is odd to have lived an odd life.
My peers have at least one house, if not two, and have retired or are about to. They are looking back on long careers; I am unsure I have begun mine.
Between continents, as I am, I still refer to America as home. This is where I should probably live if I am ever going to establish shallow roots before I die.
But little computes for me here. Why are the cars so big? Why do people throw so much trash on the street? Why is it so ugly at the train station?
In Europe and the Netherlands, my version of common sense is affirmed, not scrambled, and not just because I am an outsider.
(Do you know the character Jim from Cather’s My Antonia?)
Are you an insider somewhere? What’s that like?