A fragmented me is everywhere

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you.

Dear Spain,

You insulted my broken Spanish,

colonizing me years after 1492:

“We didn’t own you for 406 years so you could speak Spanglish.

Dear Peru,

I still remember your people.

Their crooked smiles, sparkling eyes, their kindness.

You introduced me to colors I thought I had never seen before.

They looked different in your land.

Dear France,

You are my new home.

I had dreamt of you for so long.

Dear Mexico,

You are the Father.

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you;

You are the Mother.

Dear London,

I had “Minstrel in the Gallery” on repeat in my headphones while I rode the Tube.

Thought you would tell me I was your muse when I visited Baker Street.

Dear Amsterdam,

Your red lights replace every other color in my memories of you.

Women in lingerie ask me to join them behind the screen.

I politely decline, never meeting their eyes,

afraid I would insult them with my gaze which was not able to pay.

Dear Mexico,

You were witness to many of my firsts:

First steps

First museum visit – La Casa Azul

First walk alone in a big city

First peck on the lips

First hangover – now, I cringe whenever I drink Mezcal.

First word – casa.

Dear Sittard,

I remember that Dutch boy who took me out on a date to a Mexican restaurant.

He ordered a black coffee and I ordered a beer.

He never talked to me again.

I may have scared him off.

Dear Spain,

You were my mother’s home for the first few years of her life.

But– you are nowhere near my definition of home.

I’m an outsider in your land.

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you.

It’s so cold here.

Can I borrow the sun?

Dear Paris,

You have made me trade all of my “Claro que si” for a “Ah! Bah oui!”

I still don’t master your language.

Tricks of the tongue, strong but silent letters.

I am thankful for the romance that lies in the crevices of your vowels, your syntax, your thick accent.

Dear Mexico,

You are the flavors that make my mouth water,

the blood that courses through my veins;

you made me fall in love with life.

You helped me heal – I am forever in your debt.

Dear Scotland,

I have this recurring dream that I swear could only take place on top of your cliffs.

But I have never visited you.

Maybe someday I will.

Dear Spain,

You birthed my favorite director and brought me my favorite movies:

Volver.

Todo sobre mi Madre.

Dolor y gloria.

La ley del deseo.

Dear Toulouse,

Pink buildings adorn your city.

I remember an Augustinian convent.

I only stopped for a few hours – I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.

Dear London,

A bike pedaled straight into me in Carnaby street.

Jasmine tea with honey and milk kissed me on the lips in Harrods.

I wanted to see the inside of the Tower of London just so I could talk to Anne Boleyn.

My brother did not want to.

Dear Oslo,

You were a pitstop.

I was hushed on the tram by locals making me feel guilty for expressing happiness.

Dear Florence,

Ci vediamo presto.

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you so much.

Although you are warmth, sometimes I do feel cold when I’m with you.

I feel versions of me coming back to haunt me.

They ask me who I am now.

They see me as another self, one returning to the past from far away, from the future.

I don’t really know how to answer them.

Dear Peru,

Your coca leaves hypnotized me – I couldn't stop sipping on the brew.

I arrived with a bag full of guilt.

I forgave myself in your arms.

Dear Portugal,

I’m not used to your icy beaches.

My tropical skin yelped at the touch.

Are your beaches that cold or was it the April breeze?

Dear New York,

Frozen fingers breathed a sigh of relief once they stepped inside of the subway.

I swear I saw Fran Lebowitz in Soho.

Grunting and fast-walking.

Dear Maastricht,

I was told I would choose you over Paris.

I’m glad I didn’t.

Dear Miami,

Three Thanksgivings were spent in South Beach.

I don’t necessarily like you, but I don’t hate you.

What’s clear to me is that I would never visit you for longer than a week.

Dear London,

I think of William Blake’s poem named after you.

I also wandered thro’ each charter’d street.

Saw the river Thames but not the Marriage hearse.

The only cries I heard were my mother’s.

Dear Scotland,

I can’t stop saying the word lass.

The Highlands whisper my name – I hear it at night, in my dreams.

In them, I run in circles atop Saint John’s Head.

For the time being, Duolingo is teaching me Gaelic.

Dear Japan,

I tried learning Japanese a few months ago just so I could watch Miyazaki’s films without subtitles.

I wish I could say more, but this is all I remember how to write without looking it up:

Arigato gozaimasu.

Dear Valle de Bravo, Mexico,

Pebble streets with missing stones,

painted walls and floating perforated paper that read “Viva Mexico”.

I watched the sun go down from the peak of La Peña on New Year’s Eve.

Fireworks exploded right in front of my eyes, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Sometimes you can be more of a home than Puerto Rico.

You don’t ask me things – you let me exist.

Dear Paris,

You make me appreciate cycles.

Green leaves turn yellow, then an orange, sometimes a red.

Then the colors disappear; trees become void and empty until the green returns – leaves are born once again.

Dear Spain,

You make the word foreigner make sense.

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you so much. Too much.

I feel like I’m wasting my time by constantly going back to you.

But I can’t help it.

Dear Peru,

Machu Picchu was asleep when I first visited – I saw it wake up from its deep slumber.

The fog lifted and I found myself surrounded by stones.

You took my breath away.

I am a me before and after you.

Dear London,

I felt so small under the watchful eye of Ben.

It was rainy – it probably hasn’t stopped raining since then.

Dear Paris,

I’m leaving you in May.

But I’ll see you again in August.

Dear Puerto Rico,

I miss you.

I’ll see you in May,

then leave you in August.

You have seen me leave and return so many times;

as always, I promise to share my travels when I see you again.