“But, then again, everything is the real world” — Kimmconn
Reality must be shorthand for “home”—with its cluttered closets and cable bills and dentist appointments and looking for parking. I came home to jury duty and dead plants and freelance writing assignments about fireworks and sunscreen and the resurgence of once-eradicated diseases.
Is this home, reality?
Then what was that hostel bunk bed in Lisbon? That turquoise Ikea couch in Harlem. The bright and roomy studio on the beach in Cancún. That modern 2-story apartment in Genoa. Our private deck that overlooked a cliff and rowboats and vineyards in the clouds. A four-hour nap in a guesthouse near JFK that has its own story.
Reality is a whole frozen pizza followed by an apologetic green smoothie.
It’s also that mouthful of burrata, prosciutto, and fig jam that welcomed us to the markets of Madrid.
It’s the summer rain of Miami that keeps me on the couch with a cup of comfort, and the Jeep drive to a Moorish castle in Sintra that lures me out of bed.
It’s the kitchen table conversations with Grandma, and the act of pushing my legs with each step to a view of the Mediterranean my camera couldn’t grasp.
Reality is putting these memories on paper, and you reading them on your phone, all of us wishing we were somewhere else, and being so grateful that I’m here at home with the freedom to leave and return again and again and again.