Good morning Paris

Deep blue haze mottles a dark sky
Competes with fluorescent reflections
Harsh and glaring against my window

No more than a blink
A furtive glance at the steward
A survey of the cabin
And the sky explodes
Palest blue turns to
Peach melba turns to
Blood red boiling on the horizon

Reflections of this fiery rainbow
On the smooth frozen edge of a plane’s wing
Voluminous ashy clouds hide
Villages
Towns
Cities on the edge of sleep and morning
Angry orange light punches through dense haze to compliment the sky
Greet her, complete her

Bonne journée Paris, you are melon haze, you are sleepy eyes, and African limbo

Origins unknown

Strange and shocking the frontier between Mauritania and not. I stroll into the airport not even hour before boarding, hardly checking my watch. I’ll make my flight, I think to myself, inshallah.

The random Mauritanian I met on the way to Matt’s house offers to drive me to the airport. Generously, he bypasses security to assist me with bags I’m pretty sure he won’t steal, and to chat it up with a guard (named Diene, I later learn) who will later personally escort me to the plane over empty tarmac.

In my carryon bags, I remember to remove all my swiss army knives, leathermen, and other assorted potential weapons, but I forget the Mauritanian blade engraved in delicate silver. It’s not really a knife proper, we think to ourselves, but the Air France representative places it in checked luggage all the same.

My personal escort informs me my flight is about to take off, “maybe we should get you to the gate.” My blood pressure barely spikes. Diene had delayed me with conversation, but surely he can delay an international flight to get me on board. It is a hybrid of entitlement and inshallah, both born and bred in Mauritania.

Not all outside world regulations and procedures are lost. I remember to pack my liquid toiletries in 3 oz. bottles in a 1 qt. bag, but forgetfully pad down the tarmac with a large bottle of water in hand. If Air France doesn’t reprimand me, have I broken any rules?

Far from scolding, the airline reps only greet me with surprise and delight: a nasraniye that speaks their language! I chat with the guards as they haphazardly go through my bags. “You speak better hassaniye than me,” the guard confesses as his electronic wand passes over my stomach. I laugh incredulously and wish him a good night. As I climb the stairs, I turn over my shoulder to say goodbye and catch myself rattling off a hassaniye greeting to group of disinterested Frenchmen. So the linguistic confusion begins.

The flight has not yet begun, the wheels not yet off the ground, and I already I feel too dirty to reenter civilization. Every seat is immaculate, every surface sparkling and sterile. The menu is on preprinted cards, high quality stock and my travel pouch includes prepackaged earbuds, earplugs, night mask, towlette and socks softer than any fabric I’ve felt in Mauritania, save the deteriorating tee shirt I am almost embarrassed to wear.

Wonders never cease, the gorgeous flight attendant (dead ringer for a RIM PCV, incidentally, except he speaks real French) brings me a hot towel. Hot. Towel. White, so crisp and white. I massage my face, feeling refreshed, cleaner, better, until I realize my Mauritanian dirt has defiled the pristine terrycloth. Mauritanian dirt or my dirt? It belongs, I suppose, to both of us. I get the impression the attendant is less than impressed by my half hennaed fingernails and shower sandals and African bag and browned skin and I wonder if reentry is simply culture shock is simply discomfort in a place you thought you once belonged. Or from a place you think you already do.

The city of Nouakchott fades dimly and winks into black ocean, and I miss Mauritania already. I am an expat, but of which country, I’m not entirely sure.

ohio

out from my window, across from the city, i have whats considered
a good view
two blocks from the subway, three from the fountain, where i walk
to break in new shoes

she stands on the sidewalk just waving at taxis like horses in parades in passing
i ask where she's headed, she tells me "ohio, ive not seen my mother in ages.
its been a long time,
a real long time."

a real long time.

...

out from my window, please hear me ohio, your daughter
wants to come home
she longs to be with you, to hug you, to kiss you, to never
leave her alone
and ive gotten to know her, to live with to love her, its hard
to see her leave
she belongs to her mother and the state of ohio, i wish she belonged to me
see you sometime
see you sometime



--ohio
damien jurado