Greetings from New England

A week has passed, since I have left New York, in search of my New England’s adventure.

Last week, a new country of South Sudan was created, which made all the current maps of the world antique. In Mumbai, seventeen people were killed, over hundred injured, in the terrorist attack. In Spain descendants of Jews, who were forced to convert to Catholicism during the Inquisition, have been recognized by Israeli rabbinical authorities as Jews. New Harry Potter movie had its world premiere. Duke and Duchess of Cambridge travelled around California. In London News of the world was shut down, for hacking and corruption. 

And it’s just the scratch…

While the world continued its crazy ride, I started my own. Within one week I visited three states. I had Ghanaian dinner in Burlington. I learned that I’m allergic to cats. I practiced how to pronounce New York with the proper American accent. My feet got burning hot one night. I was told that moose are mystic creatures, like a unicorn – everyone knows about them but no one has ever seen them. I took a mushroom for a bug.  I’ve found out about the existence of the places with names like Worcester and Peabody. I sat in a rocking chair, on the porch of the Victorian house, listening to Ella Fitzgerald, thinking how great life was. I drank Irish tea in Plymouth, and ate almond croissant in Salem. I stood on the shore of Golden Pond. I got bitten by mosquitoes countless times. I cut my foot on a rock, swimming in Lake Chaplain. I tasted carmel ice-cream at Ben and Jerry’s factory even though I don’t really like carmel. I memorized Sigh no more. I wondered, what’s the difference between hip hop and rap. I walked the floors of Gropius’s House in Lincoln. I wandered the streets of Beacon Hill, and it felt like being in the XIXth century, in London. I rode a bike through a lovely town. I smelled Peruvian coffee in the morning, and had three cups of it for breakfast. I sent postcards to three continents. I had pillow thrown at my back from the second floor. I found my favourite word on an art gallery wall, and a wooden Coca-Cola box in an antique shop in Exeter, New Hampshire. I walked barefoot on the grass. I smoked cigarettes…Another Victorian house, another porch. New England je t’aime.