Blood under my fingernails, fine lines on my face, ice coffee in my cup, melting. A reasonable day, the usual Chinatown atmosphere, lots of fruit, lots of lonely syllables, lots of black shiny hair. Half drunk, half lost, half and half in my cup, walking alongside the cars. If Eighth Street comes up, I’ll ride the blue line back up to University City. Orange line, I’ll take it down south. I have no plan and I’m pretending to be tipsy. Never admit that you don’t have enough alcohol to feel your cheeks warm. Never look lost in Chinatown. Never talk with your mouth full. I never remember anyone actually saying that. Always know what continent you’re on.  

This city is dripping. Dripping with sweat, confusion, beggars, and children. Plastered everywhere, grey, grey. The streets are obese, the faces long, the strides short and awkward. No one walks like that in Paris. The cop says to the guy: “This isn’t Disneyland, this is Philadelphia.” Oh, god, this is Philadelphia. I’m back and it’s too difficult. I bury myself in cake: it looks sugary, very sugary, and that’s what I need. I stuff it in my mouth and someone asks me for the time. I point up to the sky, to City Hall, yet the foreigners seem restless and puzzled like puppies. Phone out of pocket, pocket out of pocket, my tokens are everywhere. I spit cake and stammer, “It’s 3:00 AM minus six hours.” I’m back there, six hours back in the tunnel of time — turn around, walk the Atlantic, you’ll find me. I never actually left. The Wendy’s is the Eiffel Tower. If I make a right here, I’ll be in Madrid. Europe mingles in my mind, a promiscuous heaven with free flowing wine, strange dogs, and black motorcycles. I’m dripping right now, the humidity sticks, and I’m watching Americans: Starbucks iced caramel coffee, Cinnabons, shoved into opened jaws. Animals, animals. I’m in denial, denial. Also overheating and hiccupping. Completely lost in my own city. Damn, this ain’t my city. I’m not coming back ever. I’m sulking, scavenging for fresh air and green aloe vera plants. God, I’m lost.

 I want to hear it all again: the fans fluttering open, the baguette crumbs scrapping the table, the ice cubes falling on top of one another, tumbling in blushing sangria. I want plastic tables in my way, dog shit everywhere, old people walking slowly, babies babbling “O”s, sneers at my American accent, tap water on the table, sand in my sheets, major gaps in immigrants’ rights, Sarkozy in the bathtub, the sedated worship of the past, the mosaic lizard statue in Barcelona, the ceramic, overpriced souvenirs, trains that go everywhere, Montmartre, soggy and blackened in the rain. I want it all, in my cup, down my throat, the imperfect, the silk rag with holes, the crumbling cookie, the jelly fish inhabited beach — I want all of Europe, strolling with me, swinging, lost and dazzled, hiccupping and gasping for air, holding my hand. I want to get shoved in subways, harassed by beggars, approached by greasy strangers. Six hours back to bliss. Euros clinging.  

You know it, you just know it. This is it. It’s that one dish you always order. It’s the bent picture you always look at, the song you hum, the air you cough up, the tingling of yesterday, your brand of pencil, your baby teeth. It’s that you want, always with you, always around, arms length, ready to eat in one bite, in one gulp. I want a whole continent on my plate, even if I can’t finish it, even if it sickens me, even if I have to take it to go. I want to stuff it all in my mouth and giggle.