Severino - 2

I wake to a noteworthy hangover. Signs of last night are strewn about. Clothes and whatever remained in my pockets litter the floor and trail, crumb-like, to the bed. A stench of stale beer and piss wafts from the bathroom.

The bed groans as I lumber out. I heat the frying pan and drink a large glass of water. As the pan heats I drink another glass then crack three eggs over it. The eggs congeal and I unlock my phone. Leni's message is there from yesterday.

I know you probably will not reply to this. But I need to tell you anyway.

You really hurt me Franco. Everyone is saying you are an asshole. But for some reason I keep defending you. I told Mara it’s because I liked you so much. Because if you are an asshole how does that make me look, me being the one who liked you.

That is not true though. That is just me trying to keep whatever dignity I have left. I know the reason I keep defending you is because I still care about you. And that annoys me more. But it does not make it less true.

I want (and need) you to know it is really shit that you did not tell me you left. I know I deserved that much.

I close the message and lean heavily against the kitchen wall. Last night is fragments. I remember reading the message and trying to write a reply. I remember convincing myself that was the decent thing to do when you had dated someone for three months and then abruptly left her and the city where you had dated her.

I remember re-reading the message and feeling there was something definitive in it that I had not read the first time when I was sober and had not drunk four beers. I remember thinking it would be stupid to re-discuss an issue that had already been decided. I remember repeating that as I left the apartment to buy more beers because I had drunk all of mine. Then I remember nothing.

The eggs start burning and I snap back to attention. I take them off the stove and to the table. I am about to dig in but can't deny the impulse to take out my phone again. I don't feel that hungry after.

An hour later I heft Severino outside. Every weekend I have been doing long rides along the Rhine River. The idea came from checking the map and seeing the Rhine connected Köln to the other riverside cities of Bonn, Dusseldorf, and Duisburg. Locals called them the Rhine cities and together they constituted the industrial heartland of Western Germany.

I had already ridden to Bonn, famous for being West Germany's old capital. Today the plan was a ride to Dusseldorf. Of course, that was before I had received Leni's message. You should still go though, I think. It will distract you and you definitely need the distraction.

The ride out of the city is slow and I tuck myself against the cold. Winter had crept in over the last few weeks. Skies were a constant grey and the city seemed all cement. Autumn leaves which had lent pleasant shades of orange and brown to the streets were gone. Instead, brittle trees seemed even more brittle as their leafless branches shook with the bracing wind.

The bike lane is crowded with cyclists. I feather the brakes and overtake them by veering into the car lane. Bicycles are everywhere in Köln. Dedicated lanes are present on every major road and where there is no specific lane, cyclists zip along in the shoulder while cars gingerly navigate around them.

I park at a café enroute. The cappuccino hits quick and I enjoy the rising warmth in my chest. I drink the rest greedily then send Jasper a message.

Morning

for me atleast

leni sent the inevitable message yesterday

not doing well

I decided on a long ride to help

did you finally decide whether you're staying in southampton?

The road connects to the riverside cycle way. Cycle traffic clears and I lean into the drop bars until I am bent over the front wheel and shift into the highest gear. The pedals stiffen with increased resistance and my legs push hard against the buffeting wind. I love this part. It always feels like a plane taxing down a runaway accelerating for take-off. The bike seems motorized as a surge of speed propels me forward.

Severino has not disappointed. Despite its age, the bike moves easily as I throw it into corners and barrel down the tarmac trying to avoid tree debris on the road. I hurtle pass families taking a weekend stroll and eventually it is me not Severino who slows the pace. The throbbing in my head and lack of sleep are echoing through my body like a deep ache.

The cycle way ramps to a bridge and I get out of the seat to keep a good pace past a throng of locals who are looking off the side at the picturesque Rhine view. I steal a glance and smile at the dark blue slow-moving water. Riding next to the river always feels like an adventure. Like its winding waters are leading me somewhere hidden and obscure.

I shift back to the drop bars for the steep decline off the bridge so I can fully engage the brakes. The rushing air is cold but refreshing. I feel the calm I always feel after riding for a while. I am convinced it has to do with the honesty inherent in the activity. There is no way to lie when on a bike. There is no external motor to hide the effort you put in. Even on the top end models the relationship between how hard you pedal and how fast you go remains stubbornly intact.

This honesty stretches to other things too. It's very difficult for me to lie about anything once things have been stripped down to the simple quotients of a bike ride. I have been on Severino for only thirty minutes but already I know why I didn't tell Leni I left. It was because I didn't want to entertain the idea of staying. And I knew that if I told her, or even talked to her about it, I would entertain that. And I just couldn't stay in Berlin. I really couldn't.

The cycleway cuts away from the river and joins a country road. The temperature drops further as Koln is left behind. The grass next to the road is lightly frosted and has a white hue. A couple pass and stare at me with grim expressions as they hold each other for warmth. I try not to smile at them. It always confuses me how much locals disliked winter. They seemed to take the growing cold as a personal affront and postered the disproval on their faces.

A bench approaches and I take the opportunity for a break. I have packed some bananas and I chew through them with gusto before checking my phone. Jasper has replied.

hope her message wasn't too bad

though you do deserve it franco

long ride is good

find the beauty again etc.

I’ve decided to leave southampton

feels like I am going backwards here

as if our student life is repeating

I have a plan to try for belgium

because honestly I was happiest there

who knows how that will go though

I pour some water into my hand and wipe the sweat of my face and back of my neck. Then I take my helmet off and run the water through my hair too. It is jarringly cold but the tiredness fades out of me. After drying both hands, I pick up the phone and message Jasper back.

seems we are both not doing well

just go for belgium

seems obvious from where I am

which is a bench in the middle of the german countryside

besides

since when don't we go for long shots?

Another grimacing couple passes. They would probably be offended if I told them I liked winter. To me, the change in temperature was a welcome reminder of passing time. The pale and underlit days a fitting counterpart to summer sun-drenched evenings. I even enjoyed how the pale light made everything seem tragic instead of beautiful. That was more interesting as far as I was concerned.

The country road continues in a monotonous line. Disused farmland is on either side and the sky looms too large against the flat horizon. Cycling wise it is a straight grind. I let rhythm take over and drop my weight onto the hood covers so I am still slightly upright and comfortable. The road beneath passes fast and I divide my focus between keeping the pedal momentum and scanning the road ahead for obstructions.

Berlin was meant to be a place to re-adjust after the years I had spent in conflict zones. Life back then had only consisted of developing emergency response plans to forecast what would happen if the worst did happen and then responding to what probably was the second worst thing to happen. Each month passed with us hoping that the updated evacuation protocol would not be used.

Berlin was meant to be the solution. But I had no idea what I was doing when I went there. I did not realize all that time in conflict zones had caused me to diligently groom worse and worse coping mechanisms which eventually became anything else that let me ignore the chaos around.

I went to Berlin ignoring all that. I arrived expecting to become that version of Franco who had not left a stable home to travel to those chaotic places years ago. I studiously set up everything to make it so. I got a sunny and reasonable sized apartment. I met a girl who had an interesting job and wanted to recommend me interesting books. I bought a sensible bike and together she and I went out on the weekends when the weather was good or spent the day inside reading when the weather was bad.

I so wanted to be that version of Franco. For him to be the solution. A version of me who finally seemed content with his life and did not feel an incessant and persistent need for something he could not articulate.

But that version of Franco never emerged. Instead, all those perfectly groomed ways to sabotage myself were set free. And I didn't have security curfews or movement restrictions to curb my evenings. I could go all night. Alcohol was also no longer the only way I could dissociate. There was a whole heap of recreational drugs. There were even some new ones that had become popular while I was in the field.

My speed is solid now. I imagine the excess from yesterday has been sweated and eked out of my body. I visualize the purity of my wrung-out form and pump the pedals wanting more to be removed. The countryside fades quickly with the pace and signs of suburbia begin emerging. Dusseldorf is getting close now.

Hulking metal structures appear on the left. Cement roads leading to cement plants. Block drab structures built for rudimentary intentions. I enjoy their inelegance. These places feel hidden. Like the vast sewerage networks that transport our collective shit, these places function for some distasteful purpose and are hidden precisely for that reason.

I need to message Leni. The bike's honesty has prevailed. I would find a bar somewhere in Dusseldorf to do it. Leni did not need to be involved in my personal farce. All she was given was the version of Franco I was trying so ardently to be but wasn't yet. Perhaps she saw past it and gave me the benefit of the doubt. Either way it wasn't her fault. Yet, she had been one of the biggest impacted.

Dusseldorf appears on the horizon. To get into the city I would need to get onto the Flehe Bridge. I check my phone and see a curved path through the neighbouring town that will connect me. I pass through it at speed and barrel up the bridge onramp.

The city skyline looms in front and I see old town lit up. The Rheinturm tower rises prominent next to it and divides the city. At the middle and highest part of the bridge, I can see the Rhine again and how it curves past the city's western edge. Then the bridge ramps down and the view is forgotten as the rushing ground in front becomes the only thing of importance.

My favourite moment of arriving in a new city is not when you first enter. It is when you first blend in. Coming of the bridge most pedestrians stare strangely at me wondering where I came from looking so windswept and exhausted. But as I ride through the outer suburbs to the populous center, most people just assume I am another university student or worker commuting back home. I enjoy that slotting-in feeling. The gradual process of becoming unnoticeable.

In the old town there is a line of Irish pubs side to side. I park Severino on the street and find the emptiest. There is a seat at the bar and I order a beer. It comes and I read Jasper's reply.

I agree with your suggestion

the longshot is a job working for an old professor in brussels

your location makes me jealous

everything is clearer in the middle of the countryside

also

what are you going to do about leni's message?

There are only regulars at the bar. Their shoulders slump in familiarity with the place. Most make a show of watching whatever sport is playing but I see they are really just there to drink. I imitate them and rest my elbows forward and sip the beer slow. The high of the ride is ebbing away. In its place is what was there this morning and the night before that. Messaging Leni seems less easy now.

I take a big swig of beer and quickly start typing.

hi

guess I need to reply

now that you've said I definitely wouldn't

but bad jokes aside

I just want to say sorry

and I really mean it

I guess you want to know why I left, so let me try to answer that

in a shitty attempt to demonstrate my sorry-ness

do you remember the fight we had before I left?

you were annoyed because I was coming over hungover all the time

and I gave this whole spiel about how I felt like I was in two berlins

one that enjoyed quiet nights with you

one that went out till whenever and did whatever

I know you didn't like that response, it was obvious from your reaction

but you were right, in a lot of ways I was using our relationship as an excuse to better myself

but is that so wrong?

you brought out the version of me that I needed to know better

and I was and still am very appreciative of that

but in the end, I think that's all you could do

bring out that version

you can't help me become it, that's my job unfortunately

anyway, that's a long way of saying I left because I just couldn’t take those two versions of Berlin competing with each other

hopefully I can figure out a solution to that

but in the meantime I'm really sorry for involving you in it all

you definitely didn't deserve it

and I guess there's not much else to say after that

I read it through and finish my beer. The bartender takes the empty glass and looks over expectantly. I nod and ask another then stare at the screen some more. At least it's true, I think finally. There is not much else to say.

Piano Notes

In England, Katherine mentioned she wanted to learn piano. They were visiting her parents for Christmas and in that quiet village out of London, Katherine reminisced about how she had tried to learn as a child.

“Mum got me into it.  She used to play in the afternoons before dad came home. I thought when I started, I would sound like her. I hated it when I didn’t.”

Their lazy afternoons were filled like this. As they traipsed through the surrounding hills and tight horse trails that ran between houses, she would turn her gaze over to him in that way he adored and reveal a nook or cranny about herself. Even bundled in jacket, scarf, and beanie, her light green eyes came clear against the washed-out winter light as she spoke.

“I’m sure you’ll pull it off, he replied taking her hand and cupping it for warmth. “Plus, you’ll have me around this time to help.”

*

Franco flew to Iraq and Katherine stayed in England. The day he landed in the Kurdish capital of Erbil, the US gave the order to kill the high ranking Iranian general, Qasem Soleimani. As the city waited for the inevitable Iranian counter-attack, Franco took shelter in cafes, reading through the books Katherine’s parents had given him.

In the evenings, he would amble around the spacious but empty NGO guesthouse, waiting till he could call her. Katherine had started piano classes and often spoke about how demanding the hand movements were. One night they stayed up late and Franco finally told her how bitterly he missed her.

“I know,” she replied through the grainy image on screen. “That’s the terrible thing about every time we do meet. We have to deal with the leaving again.”

*

The sound of the piano came through the thin wood door of the bathroom. Shower running, Franco ignored his own body wash and reached for Katherine’s. Prying open the cap, he drew in the smell, then slowly spread it over him. The piano notes continued as heat and steam filled the tiled interior. Franco knew he should shower quickly, the train was leaving in two hours. But he did not care. The piping hot water and collecting steam held him now. He stood still and let it wash over him.

“Katherine has improved a lot,” he thought to himself.

*

Winter and summer passed in Iraq and all the while Katherine practised. On their evening calls, she told Franco about the different pieces she was trying to learn. Her teacher had praised her fast progress but pushed her relentlessly.

“It’s like every time I get reasonably confident, he throws the next level on me! I love how challenging it is but I would love to slow down a bit.”

When Katherine got the new job and left for Berlin, Franco was happy to hear she had a piano at the school she was teaching at. The hovering cleaners bothered her, but she took to the new routine well. The evenings were soon filled with excited talk about the life they would establish once Franco arrived.

*

When Franco finally heard Katherine play again, he was shocked by how good she was. Somehow all that off-hand talk of practise exercises had materialized into her coaxing those beautiful sounds in a basement of a German international school. Her fingers seemed imbued with something he had not been there to witness. Their delicate ends suddenly able to finesse sharp melodies from countless possible notes.

When she finished, he told her he was not able to get the job in Germany. He was going back to the Middle East, this time Yemen. Somehow, even further away. When they broke up a few days later, he asked if she would use the piano as a way to get through it.

“Yes, it’s a good distraction,” she replied, her voice already distant. “I’m thinking to buy my own to make it easier. It will probably have to be electronic but at least that means I don’t have to do any tuning.”

*

Franco turned the shower off with a sigh and stepped onto the mat to dry himself. He knew he was late. Roughly running the towel through his hair, he remembered how surprised he was when Katherine mentioned she was moving to Italy. He knew she wanted to stay in Germany and figured that option had failed somehow. In Berlin they had agreed to stay friends so he suggested they meet in Italy. It seemed a good as place as any to see if they really could be so.

*

Katherine was in Genoa, the port city of 20th century fame. Franco spent the first night with her in a piazza. The night was warm and neither wanted the conversation to be interrupted by restaurant staff. Franco bought a six-pack of beers and in an isolated corner they talked.

Katherine mentioned those who came after him and Franco did the same. It had been lightly trodden territory until it was not. When they had broken up, the thought of either with another was like a press on open wound. As they talked that evening, both still felt the discomfort but the healed skin remained intact. They realized it had taken over a year for that to be the case.

*

The second day, they toured the city and visited an exhibition at Palazzo Ducale. Moving from room to room, they occasionally brushed against each other and were reminded about the countless weekends where they had done exactly the same. Franco insisted on trying the local wines after and they moved through bottles and restaurants, finishing at a local wine bar.

Katherine was seeing someone. So was Franco. They discussed them and finally broached the topic of whether they could still be something if they had continued living together. In their heads the idea had been pushed away on multiple occasions. But sitting across each other on the second floor of that bar with an ice bucket and a half-full red wine between them, they re-considered what they had both extensively considered.

“Either way it wouldn’t work. You’re still in Yemen,” Katherine said finally.

“And you’re here,” Franco countered.

They finished the bottle and went home. Franco was sleeping in Katherine’s spare room. As he was getting undressed, she called his name.

“What is it?”

She was a room and corridor away but he could still hear the hesitation in her voice.

“I’m just feeling lonely,” she said.

Franco knew what she wanted. He understood so much about her, her insecurities, her fears, her passions. He knew the conversation that evening had opened a door they both had tried to shut. Whether it stayed open was up to them.

“Do you want me to sleep over there?”

“Yes,” she replied.

*

Katherine finished playing as Franco left the bathroom. He heard the piano lid thud and it occurred to him that he could not relate at all with her playing now. It had become something of its own, something defined by its clear separation from him.

Franco put his jacket on and picked up his things. It was time for him to leave. Katherine had woken up before him and by the time he ambled into the kitchen she had made it clear there was no need to talk about last night. Then she had checked the time and said he should get showered if he was going to make the train.

He agreed but watched her walk over to the piano first. She lifted the lid and glanced over when she noticed him. He did not say anything so she turned back to the gloss white keys, arranged the sheet music in front, and started playing.

Be Unreserved With The World

In June, I spent a week cycling from Austria to Italy. The route started in Salzburg, Mozart’s town of birth, For days it drove up the Carinthian alps, climbing to the ski town of Bad Gastein. The final ascent was tough, and I walked the streets that night wondering if I was too old for these types of rides. I took comfort in Bad Gastein itself seeming a mausoleum for an older, grander, but defunct Europe.

I had chosen the route because I wanted to take my bicycle, Severino, back to his native Italy. I had bought Severino on a deeply alone and directionless evening in Cologne. I did not know what to do that night, so I found a warehouse selling second-hand bicycles and Severino was there waiting.

He was a vintage Italian road bike, and I imbued on him the power to help me. Over the course of that brittle German winter, he did just that. But when the winter ended and I had to go home, I was unable to take him with me. Now, after two years I had returned and was determined to vindicate myself by visiting his home.

From Bad Gastein, I descended the alps. It was terrifying. I still remember the primal fear as I tore down the literal side of a mountain. I fingered the brakes when I dared, knowing that if I braked too hard, I would lock the wheels and plummet into the abyss. When I finally reached the valley below, I jumped off the bike and cried at a busy intersection. Even I can recognize when I have gotten away with something I probably shouldn’t have.

At the bottom of the range, I crossed over to Italy on a rain drenched morning. The sky cleared in the afternoon as I started on the disused Pontebanna railway. I had been looking forward to the railway since I started the route. It runs along the Fella River and connects the towns of Tarvisio and Udine, When it was replaced in 1985 with a new track, the old line with its winding and precipitous route was repurposed for cycle traffic.

I rode with a wide smile plastered on my face. The view was breathtaking as Grado, and I hugged the edge of a mountain with a river roaring and churning beneath us. The route was in constant slope since we were heading down a valley and I moved at a blistering but effortless pace that felt like I had wings. As we cornered sharply and saw the granite sweep by, I shouted to the rushing wind that we were home, an Italian road bike riding at pace in his native Italy.

After the rush of the railway, the final days from Udine to Grado were somber. With the mountains behind us, the land flattened as the route stretched to its necessary end at Grado where the continent ended and the Adriatic sea began. Severino and I rode forlorn through the monotonous farmland and occasional historic town and soon the horizon was the immense bridge that extended like a long limb to connect the town of Belvedere with Grado peninsula.

We flew across with the sea beneath us. I tried to make out Grado, but it was so flat it barely indented the horizon. When it did emerge, it was with a flourish of sandstone, shrill birds, and pungent salt water scent. We had arrived at the route’s end.

I stopped Severino at the first lookout. I dutifully took a picture of him between the throngs of tourists and retired to a bar. As I sipped the Aperol, I became even more somber. All that day, I had dwelled on why I loved Severino so much. On why it felt right to take Severino back to Italy solely on the idea it would be poetic.

Sitting there, I realized it was because Severino brings out the part of me that enjoys doing things purely because they are poetic. He reminds me to still be unreserved with the world. Sipping my way through the Aperol, I hoped that impulse would not end with the route.

Platform

I sit at the bar

Cloaked by dim light

A stereo gapes in front

And I try to squirrel

Some truths from its lush tunes.

Another beer

As a couple lands to my right

They talk incessantly

And the beer goes fast

The man's words hold me

Because only a year ago

They would have been mine.

Words wrought by desire

Delivered in relentless pursuit

Of that fleeting goal.

But things have changed

Now there is a woman in this world

Wearing a ring I gave her

Now there is an unseen platform beneath my feet

It is solid

In all the ways I am not.

When I gave her the ring

I remembered my first long run

And the feeling I could rise above anything

I remembered finally leaving home

And all things feeling possible.

But as she said yes

Those moments of elevation

Where I felt above the angst, dissatisfaction, and isolation

Somehow were less true

As I realized

With genuine feeling

I would always feel like that now.

Another beer

The man keeps talking

I glance at his turned back

And realize he is reaching for something

I no longer value

So I pivot back to the stereo

To its open smiling maw

Finish my beer

And message her.

Basics at 33

At 33, 

I think I get the basics

My face is fatter 

But it was always too skinny 

I still have a stubborn turn in my head 

But I see a new kindness in the eyes 

Maybe I still have the chance to be wise

One, far to come

Greying light of a day.

Yes, I think I'm getting the gist 

My relationship status is still a pendulum 

Weighted with expectations

But I have two thoughtful and open-hearted nieces 

Who stretch my tired and joy wary mind 

And jam wonderment

Back into vocabulary.

I still think 

There's something bigger that makes the world go round 

Some churning velvet fire

Of our compassion for one and another 

And at 33

I finally want to help stoke it.

Nostalgia

I am sick of nostalgia

All that, polishing the past

Chewing those empty calories

Years, prone and idle

In the comfortable past tense.

Not seeing

And not even trying to see

How exotic the future is

How tantalizing

How challengingly new!

A skiff crossing uncharted waters

A road cresting out of view.

I await that future now

Like a hungry diner

I wait the next course

I clamour for it

Let it come fast

Let it come hot

I have waited years for it now

I am starving for it.

island With No Roads

The director tells us to meet him at the dock. It is behind our hotel. The reception staff point Ken and I through the restaurant and we navigate the closely stacked tables and walls littered with fishing gear to the double door exit. We push through and are struck by the vivid blue of the Chuuk lagoon. It is a blue almost too clear and I shade my eyes. It is a blue that feels almost sharp.

A pier stretches out into the water. The lagoon is busy today. Already there are several skiffs cutting across the water with their white spitting tails behind them. Sunlight and heat bristle off the water’s surface and already I feel the sweat creeping on.

Someone waves at the end of the pier. We walk the wooden planks towards them bowing against the sun. It is the mayor of Fefan. He has a round open face that feels gentle. His hands are in his pockets but he shakes mine when I extend it. The director is down in the boat loading the food and drinks. He waves at me and keeps on loading.

“Thank you for arranging this,” I say to the mayor.

“It is no problem. Will this be your first time on Fefan?”

“Yes, for both of us,” I say gesturing to Ken who is lagging behind to take pictures.

“Okay. I hope you will enjoy the visit then,” he replies and gestures me to board.

We set off and the boat cuts fast across the water. In between swells we catch air and thud against the water like it is earth. A few other boats streak by and shout greetings at the mayor. He smiles at each of them and gives a slight wave that reminds me of the queen.

“I guess you do this trip everyday,” I shout over the roaring engine and churning water.

“No, not really. Most days I stay on Fefan.”

“Oh? Don’t you need to go into town to buy things and for work?”

He smiles and it suits his wide face and thick chin stubble.

“I do need to, but I don’t. I prefer the island.”

We pass the southern headland of Weno, the main lagoon island where we boarded, and it takes the rearview. Fefan fill the front. It is lush green and larger than I expected with the typical bulge in the center where the land rises up to harbour freshwater lakes.

When I planned my visit to Chuuk, Fefan was the only island I wanted to see. In the office they talk about it as the breadbasket of Chuuk. One of the few islands that had managed to toe the line between a reliance on imported canned food and growing locally. Already, I had seen some of the vegetables grown there in Weno’s markets.

The first building we see is the church. The bottom half is hidden by the shore hugging mangrove forest but jutting out of it are two ivory white towers and the triangle roof between.

The director turns the boat in and I see the remains of a pier. The cement is cracked and collapsed in slab like depressions. Weeds and shrubs poke through the exposed soil in the cavities.

“We had a king tide a few years ago that caused this,” says the Mayor pointing, “we will need to dock at the end and walk because the tide is low now.”

The director throttles us to the pier edge. When we were organizing the trip, we needed his permission to visit Fefan but it was difficult. It had taken a week to get a hold of him on the phone and his answer was vague. When we arrived in town we immediately went to his office and he reluctantly agreed to organize the visit.

We follow the cracked stone to a church that the mayor explains is the townhall and venue for community gatherings.

“We have called everyone here for your meeting,” he continues.

“We’ll see what time they arrive,” the director says, “here everyone moves at their own pace.”

“Yes, it’s true,” the mayor says nodding.

We drop everything at the church hall. The mayor’s team has set up rows of pews in a semicircle. In the centre is a recently cleaned blackboard and two folding tables for us to sit.

“Seems like you’re going to be giving a sermon Ken.”

Ken laughs lightly.

“This is fine. As long as people come.”

With everything set up, we sit outside on the steps to wait. The hall is on a slope and we can see the church complex span impressively out with several buildings within the low stone wall perimeter.

One of the mayor’s staff walks over to him and mentions something in Chuukese.

“He told me that people are running late,” the mayor says, “some have not left their houses yet.”

“How long will it take them?” Ken asks.

“I think a while.”

“Are the roads are bad?”

The director laughs.

“They are no roads,” he says, “they will be walking.”

“I suggest you visit a farm,” the mayor says, “it will help you understand how farming is done here.”

I look at Ken, “What do you think? This is your visit in the end.”

“Yes, fine. No point staying here if there is no one.”

The mayor stays behind and the director leads us out of the complex. He points towards the buildings I saw and identifies them as the church dormitory and the kitchen.

“This area is very old. The buildings are maybe from the 1850s. But they are made from stone, so they are good quality and do not have many issues.”

He leads us to a narrow trail skirting off the main path. Someone has laid stones to mark the route and we wind through the overgrowth until a block house emerges. It is rain stained and the concrete floor is coloured with ingrained dirt.

A family comes out and the director shakes hands with them and introduces us. Unlike the main island, none of the family speak English and after a few minutes the director points behind the house.

“The farm is back there.”

It rises on a hill and has been stepped to create three platforms. The plants hang from simple terraces of fish netting, wire, and sticks. The sun bakes as Ken checks everything, reaching out to try the shovel and lifting the budded vegetable stems as they hang from the trellis.

“Where does the water come from?” he asks.

The director is sitting in the shade of the house in an old wheelchair. He smokes with the farmer and points to a small PVC pipe.

“They run the pipe from the mountains. But it has a lot of problems because the pipe is not that strong and often gets broken when the kids step on it.”

Ken and I nod. The pipe is old and cracked in several places at the opening. The rest of the farm feels the same. The terraces seem hastily put together and soil in the garden beds is unsecured and eroded by the rain. Nothing is arranged neatly. They are vegetables growing here but nothing is as organized as I imagined.

The director checks the time and starts leading us back. We return using another route to see a different farm. It is similar to the first with the dirt crusted pipe forming a small stream in front of the cucumber and eggplant crops.

We connect to a wider path that seems to function as a main road on the island. Children pass kicking a ball between them and a few women walk slowly with groceries packed in cloth bags. A shade comes from the trees towering over us and it is pleasant being able to hear the birds skittering above. The idea of cars or traffic seems alien in the moment.

“Wow, this a very old mango tree here,” Ken says pointing at the thickly gnarled trunk Infront of us.

“It is one of the oldest on island,” the director says, “Around fifty years old. Ten years more than me.”

We return to the hall to see people have arrived. The pews are half full with farmers stretching out and fanning themselves from the heat of walking over. The doors are wide open for the breeze and the children have been sent outside so they don’t disturb us. I can hear them kicking a ball around.

The mayor and director start the meeting and give their respect to all the village chiefs present. The chiefs nod at each of their mentions and it is only their attitude, the lack of discern that goes with authority, that makes their high positions clear.

Ken takes over and explains how the project aims to support the farmers and how he is here to understand how we can best do that. Once he finishes the room becomes a succession of speeches as each farmer gives their opinion in the customary drawn-out manner.

We take a break and Ken directs the next session to discuss specific requests. The farmers respond with simple things. Tools, seeds, and better fertilizer. Ken writes them down and asks follow-up questions.

I can see he is trying to convince them to use a more organized method in their farming. He suggests new methods and outlines their benefit. The farmers nod blankly. They are listening but are not convinced. This process goes on and it becomes clear that they are happy with the way they are doing things. They just need the items to keep doing them.

After a while the director indicates we need to start wrapping up to get back to town in time. Ken nods and makes a list of all the requests noted. I review the list and see nothing in the way of a new system but rather just the simple things the farmers asked for at the beginning.

The mayor closes out the meeting and thanks everyone. Some food is brought out, but it is only us eating. Most of the farmers have already started moving back home where they will eat with their families. Only the visitors needed to have the food provided for them.

It is late afternoon now and we wait on the steps again while Ken talks to a few more farmers who want to raise specific points with him. From a gap in the wall enclosure, I see the director has brought the boat closer now the tide is high. It is docked just outside the complex under an evergreen. It bobs gently with a wind I cannot feel but see and the sun shimmers on the water around it.

We go back to the boat. Families come to say goodbye and wait at the edge of the complex wall. They make a line and wave as the director throttles us gently from the shore. As we reach the end of the stone pier they start to disperse back home. I watch them walk away and feel a tinge of regret. Back on the water, they and their way of doing things already feels far away.

The Reason Why

Jasper, you once asked why I chose to be a humanitarian. At the time, I gave you the answer I gave everyone. I suspected you did not believe it but did not know for sure. It has always been hard to discern your reaction to the things I say about myself. You probably knew when it comes to me, the truth is never in the first edition. It is built over the subsequent and contradictory issues.

My suspicion was confirmed when you asked the question again. But, by then, I had been repeating that same answer so many times I had no other way to respond. My answer dissatisfied me and this time I knew it dissatisfied you. Consider the below an attempt at rectifying both.

I was born in India and I left at the age of four to Australia. You know this already. What you do not know is that at six years old my parents took me back to India. The reason was for an extended stay over the Australian summer months. The trip was meant to be a homecoming. It was not.

Travelling by train, bus, and car, I saw a country of tremendous poverty on that trip. I saw life being lived on the fringes. Under bridges, between buildings, next to railway tracks. The degree and scale of impoverishment was confronting and it taught me the meaning of words that I would only learn to spell much later. Wretched. Squalor. Emaciated.

However, as lasting as those images were, sometime else made a bigger impression. It was how people looked. They looked like me. Sitting behind that bus, car, or train window, I looked at my likeness and understood the only difference between them and I was the arbitrary circumstances of birth. Behind that window, I first felt the weight of unearned privilege.

An idea took hold on that trip. I decided I needed to earn that privilege somehow. To demonstrate through action that it was not wasted on me. Finishing that trip, I only had that in mind. I guess it was a young boy’s way of dealing with all the guilt he was feeling.

It took a decade until I was reminded of that idea. At fifteen, I was researching for a history assignment. Something about the allied camps in world war 2. Scanning archival photos, I came upon James Nachtwey’s photo series covering the 1993 Sudan famine.

Stark images of the dead and emaciated stunned me and I recalled that trip to India. I looked for more photos and forgot the assignment. Gradually I learnt about the famine and the international relief workers trying to stem its impacts. I realized with rare clarity that there was a concrete way to achieve what I sought all those years ago. A way to earn the privilege I had by default.

I know phrasing it that way makes my motivation seem self-centred. I don’t disagree. To a large extent my initial motivation did come from some desire for personal redemption. A desire to rid myself of the guilt a young boy feels when he sees another young boy the same colour as him in the dirt while he speeds by in an air-conditioned car.

There was a time when this worried me. When I thought it ruined what I am doing somehow. But now I realize all that matters is that I am actually doing this. I am helping people, right now, and the concrete impact of that can’t be taken away. I think you would agree with that.

James Foley

The first American

ISIS beheaded

Was James Foley

Who a year before

Spent nights

At his sister's home

In residential Milwaukee

All the while, restless

To return to Iraq

To the incessant rhythm

Of the freelance journalist.

Whiling through quiet evenings

In a spare room

Overlooking the well-tended garden

I wonder if

He saw something persuasive

In that stillness

Like I sometimes do.

The persuasion of something solid

Like sitting quiet

At a busy outdoor cafe

Where sun encircling

Parasol shuddering

I watch the hurried movements of others

Contrast my slow draining coffee.

Maybe James thought that

At some cafe, somewhere in Milwaukee

But I can't ask him

Because he left Milwaukee

Went to Iraq

And was jailed

Tortured

And beheaded on live television

Shimmer

I felt pitch black then

Shimmering

Lit by an invisible

Tremulous light.

Where revelling

In the anonymity

Of life, lived at night

Words seemed too bare

And only gestures true.

Now, tan grey is in the mirror

The hue of canyons and mountains

I navigate

Waking early

Rocks still cool

To return

After the sun bakes them clear

Thinking, like those rocks

Time has shaped me.

So, I ask

Does it shimmer still?

The answer, finally

Yes

But the shimmer is

Of a worn river stone

Adorned occasionally

With sparking light

Water passing overhead.

Decision To Leave

A month earlier.

Moya’s is crowded. I hear it from the street. Trumpet notes and snare hiss. I am late and the weekly jazz has started.

Joy and Ben have a table in front. I weave over. They both have negronis and Joy’s face is flushed with her glass nearly empty. Ben sits upright and watches the band like he is writing an essay.

I lean forward so they can hear me.

“Sorry for being late guys, the train got delayed.”

They wave it off. My train had not been delayed. I had arrived early and went straight to a bottle shop to buy two beers. I drank them mechanically in the nearby park hoping the incoming bluntness would inspire some resolve on the decision I need to make.

 Joy slides the menu over.

“You should get a Negroni Franco. They have a special on them tonight.”

“Oh definitely agreed,” Ben adds pausing his analysis. “They’re making them really good tonight.”

“Well easy choice then,” I reply.

I order one for Joy and me. Ben declines his eyes already back to the stage.

The band is committed tonight. They work hard and big sounds fill the small room. I sip the negroni. I expected it to be watered down. It is not and does what the beer could not. I lean back. The trumpet solo has begun and the sharp peaks run through me.

The decision is between a new job in the Pacific or Ukraine to work on the humanitarian response to the war. I knew little about the Pacific job other than it would require living on an island and was not a conflict response. Ukraine would be too familiar. An easy slot-in to my previous years responding in Middle East conflicts.

The Ukraine offer was attractive. Better pay, more responsibility, a considerable chance for actually making an impact for those fleeing the front line. Of course, the usual conflict complications apply. Though being within five-kilometre range of Russian artillery is new. 

Joy starts her new Negroni.

“Sorry Franco, but you need to give us a few minutes. I need to keep discussing this one thing with Ben.”

“It was more an interrogation than a discussion,” Ben interjects.

I laugh and reach for my drink.

“Go ahead. I am so not getting involved.”

Ben shoots me a look and I try to look apologetic.

“Come on, it isn’t an interrogation,” Joy says, “I just don’t get it. What exactly happened with Kristine? All I know is you both were in a relationship last week and now apparently not?”

“I told you, it’s not a big thing,” Ben replies half looking at the band still, “We had been in bad place for a while.”

“Fine. But that does mean you completely broke up on Thursday?”

The band drowns out Ben’s reply. They are giving it good now. Sounds pile on the other in some complex way. I try to make sense of it but it feels like chess. Then the trumpet cuts through it all again and I feel electric.

The few things I know about the island job worry me. The island would be very remote. I would be very isolated on the island. Things would go very slow on the island. These things pile and become ominous to someone used to the frenetic and crowded context of an international emergency response.

But I know where Ukraine would take me. The island is a question mark but another job in conflict is too clear. I know the way the days will become like tunnels. How everything but work will slowly slip to the side. How very quickly I would start doing anything in the evening to provide the sense of not being in that tunnel. I know that after the last job I had recovered from some of that. But I also knew how tenuous that recovery was.

The band takes a break and suddenly everything is lit and visible. Joy orders another drink and is still on Ben.

“Wait, you’re telling me that you were at home, broke up with your long-term girlfriend of seven years, and then casually joined me for some drinks?”

“Well yes,” Ben replies slowly, “But again, we were already in a pretty bad place so it wasn’t a big thing.”

I turn in my chair.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t a big thing? You broke up didn’t you?”

“God, now this really is an interrogation.”

I laugh.

“I’m sorry, I’ll stop.”

The room buzzes with conversation. Everyone has shifted to face their friends. The band have not moved and sit where they played. They seem like any other table. Only the burly instruments surrounding them indicate otherwise.

“What about you?” Ben asks, “Did you decide which job offer you’re going to take?”

“Great, now it’s my turn?”

“Exactly.”  

“Fair enough I guess. So long story short, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Don’t you need to respond quite soon?”

“Yeah, I need to provide an answer by Monday. So one day I guess.”

Joy laughs.

“The way you make decisions is so crazy to me. If I was in your position I would be literally freaking out.”

I smile.

“Who says I’m not?”

The band comes back on. They slow it real down. A couple on the table over huddle and whisper things I cannot catch. A reminder that some people are hoping not to sleep in their beds tonight.

“So are you dating anyone now?” I ask Ben.

“Come on, it’s a bit early for that,” Joy says cutting in.

“Well I actually have a date tomorrow,” Ben replies.  

Joy stares.

“That was fast.”

“No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Me and Kristen have been moving in this direction for a while now so it wasn’t that weird.”

“Okay whatever, tell us about the girl.” I say leaning in.

“I don’t know. She’s nice. We had a good conversation.”

“You met her through an app?” Joy asks.

“Yes, but we’re connected on Instagram now.”

“Aw, that’s cute. Things are going well then?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t met yet but I am looking forward to meeting her.”

I sip the Negroni observing him.

“Would you hook up with her if things went that way?”

Joy laughs.

“God, you’re worse than me now.”

“Maybe,” I reply smiling, “Either way it’s a legitimate question. So Ben, would you be down?”

Joy laughs again and Ben looks he would rather go to the toilet than answer the question.

“Look,” he says slowly, “It’s definitely not like I’m hoping for that to happen tomorrow.”

“Right, we get it. Gentlemen of the year etc. But again, if the opportunity arose?”

“Well, if we have a good time and you know conversation is going well..”

“You would be down to hook up?”

“Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be against it.”

I laugh.

“Jesus, that’s the longest yes I’ve ever heard.”

The band finishes and we settle the bill. The bulk of people have left. A few couples remain locked in conversation. The room feels small again and I am glad to leave.

Ben lives close so we part ways on the corner.

“Let me know what decision you make,” he says.

“Sure, expect a text in a few hours.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m with Joy on your decision-making process. But I’m sure it’ll work out.”

We hug and I watch him amble down the empty street. He walks upright and calm. I regret not congratulating him more on the breakup.

Joy is taking a bus but walks me to the station. It is not busy. A few people pass through the gates and a station staff plays on his phone at the ticket counter.

“Where is your bus stop?”

“Just around that corner,” Joy says pointing.

“Okay great, you’ll be alright getting home?”

She laughs.

“What?”

“It’s just funny hearing you say that knowing you might go to Ukraine.”

I smile.

“Yeah, fair enough. But I think I am going to turn it down.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

She looks at me curiously.

“But last time we talked about it you were considering it. What happened?”

I hesitate, thinking it over.

“It sounds a bit simple but I just feel like I need to move beyond conflict work. It seems to narrow me in a lot ways.”

“What do you mean narrow you?”

“It’s hard to explain it. It just feels like the horizon of what I can be in those jobs is limited. Partially because the way in which I need to compartmentalize stuff when I’m in the field.”

“That makes sense. So realizing that is why you changed your mind?”

I smile.

“Actually, it was watching you and Ben.”

“Wait what?” she says laughing.

“Weird I know right? It was just that watching you guys be relaxed and chat like that was very appealing. It’s basically everything I’m not able to be when I am in a conflict job.”

“Do you think the island job will give you that?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. But I do know going to Ukraine won’t give me that. So screw it. Why not try?”

Joy laughs again.

“That’s great. Though I repeat. I really don’t understand how you make decisions.”

Gap In The Breakers

I drag the kayak into the water. The ramp is slippery with algae and the water cool as it collects at my knees. I pack my phone into the dry bag and tuck it into the kayak’s storage space. I wedge my shoes next to it and make sure both are secured firmly.

The club owner watches me. Once I get in the kayak he points to the headland on the other side of the bay.

“Taumeasina is a little past there.”

I follow his hand and see the port and adjacent construction site on the headland. Past them are several tall white buildings. Taumeasina is a resort and those buildings must be where it starts.

“Okay, great. What’s the best route there?” I ask keeping the kayak in place.

“Well, you can follow the curve of the bay,” he says gesturing, “Or you can go through that gap in the breakers. That is faster but you need to be quick because high tide is coming. The gap might not be there for that much longer.”

He indicates to a yellow crane in the construction site. Infront of it I can see a distinct stretch of calm blue water. On either side of it waves break. On the right, breaking onto the shore. On the left, crashing further out near the reef.

 “Right, I see it. Okay, I’ll try that.”

He nods and gives me a look over.

“Take it slow when you get close to the waves and you will be fine. And remember, when you come back the gap might have moved. You can just go close to the shore if you can’t see another way through.”

I lower the paddle in the water and silently memorise the route as he described it.

“Okay thanks, will do.”

He watches me paddle out. The bay is Apia Bay. It is the major port for Samoa but is empty because it is Sunday. One fishing boat is anchored outside the reef but otherwise it is just me. The bay is on the island’s north side. The industrial side. The coastline here is all sea walled. In the south you had turquoise water and photo ready fine white sand. Here the water is deep and dark blue and the sky is washed out and seems ominous in its size.

Apia town passes on the right. Samoa’s capital. From the water, it is clear it began from one oceanfront street. From there it has built backwards. Rows of concrete houses and boxy supermarkets encroaching into the jungle. Behind it all are the clustered peaks of Mount Fito, Mount Le Pu’e, and Mount Fiamoe rising into a shrouding fog.

The kayak wobbles. I am coming into the waves. The first set are breaking against the sea wall to the right. I curve hard left to avoid the pull. The second set breaks out in the reef but are harder to manage because of the residual impact of the crashing swells.

They come in a big sweep that I see rushing from the edge of the reef until it is underneath and lifting me. It is like being in a lung. The lung of something immeasurably large and powerful that is exhaling softly. I paddle fast ignoring the strain in my arms. The thought of it taking a deep breathe motivates me. 

I pass the headland and the water calms. People are snorkelling in the reef ahead. They float languid, the air pipe upright as they survey water depths. On the shore is the family that manage the reef and rents the gear. They sit on a slope with their knees to their chest and watch the snorkellers as I might watch ducks in a pond.

A few kids break off from the group. They jump in the water as they are. Shirts and long shorts. Further down the shore one of the snorkellers emerges and trudges back to the small restaurant locals have set up. She wears a bikini and the kids in the water stare curiously as they bob in the gentle ocean lift.

I stop and get out the water bottle. My arms ache but Taumeasina is in full view now. It is the biggest resort in town and sits on a small island outcrop. My hotel owner mentioned it as a lunch spot. I can see the small cove where guests swim and where I plan to park. 

Bells come from the shore. It is a church. Morning mass has finished. A large crowd exits. I am not surprised. The drive from the airport to Apia seemed only churches. The driver remarked of a nearly all Christian population. He rattled of different, increasingly obscure, denominations. Roman Catholic, Protestant, Jehovah's Witnesses, Latter-day Saints, Assemblies of God, Seventh-day Adventist, Nazarene.

Some in the congregation watch me passing. They are dressed smart and embody the religion I read in history books. I nod formally at them. Growing up in Sydney was growing up post-religious. Those on the shore inhabit something I do not understand. It reminds of being in the breakers. It is an alien space.

Taumeasina’s cove has rocks on the west side. I paddle deeper out so I can curve past them. The few people in the cove watch me curiously. Once I pass the cove mouth the water pushes me forward. I gently rudder the kayak away from the swimmers towards the vacant north end of the small beach.

Kayak grounds in the sand. Sound is immensely satisfying. I drag myself out feeling the leg strain. The resort staff watched me enter and one approaches now.

“Can I help you sir?”

He is a waiter from the restaurant. His shirt is neatly tucked and spotless white. I am soaked from the waist down and my shirt is damp with prominent sweat stains.

“No, I’m fine,” I say shielding my eyes from the sun, “I just came here for lunch.”

If he is surprised, he hides it quickly.

“Ah of course, the restaurant is over there sir,” he replies gesturing.

I smile and drag the kayak onto the grass and flip it to drain the water.

“Is it okay to leave this here?” 

“No problem,” he replies seemingly unflappable, “I will inform the water sports manager.”

I want to shake his hand but reconsider when I see the state of it.

“Thank you,” I say and then trudge up the slope to the restaurant.

Severino - 1

I leave Berlin on a Thursday afternoon. I do not tell anyone. The train is a non-stop intercity. It blasts through the flat and green landscapes of central Germany. Suburban stations and towns pass too fast and I cannot place where we are. I enjoy that feeling of place-less-ness.

It is late evening when we arrive in Köln. I follow the directions and wait for the city train connection. It has rained most the day and the platform is damp and windy. People are strung out along the platform and keep to themselves. I huddle against a concrete pillar and message Jasper.

cold and rainy

not too many people

does not seem like alternative to berlin like they said

how is southampton going?

The train arrives. From the wide s-bahn windows I observe the distant city lights become less distant. For one of Germany’s biggest cities it is not that lit up. No stop that, I think firmly. You needed to leave Berlin. You don’t have the right to compare.

I heave everything of the train. The large rucksack gets hoisted on my back and I sling the smaller backpack over a shoulder. It is everything I own and a few people stare. I ignore them and tighten the straps on the rucksack to make sure the weight is distributed evenly then continue in the measured pace I adopt when carrying this much weight.

The Kölner Cathedral greets me outside the station. Its two gothic towers rise into the night sky and seem a bad omen. Not really the best way to start, I think fishing out the apartment address.

It is far but I decide to walk there since the air is fresh from the rain. The route stretches and I am sweating by the time I make it to the Belgian Quarter where the apartment is. I have not observed my surroundings and could not direct myself back to the station. The first night in a newly arrived city is not for that. It is for ignoring the loss of the newly left city.

Code for the outside door. Code for the key lockbox. I have travelled far but these things stay the same. The apartment duly opens. Ikea plates, cutlery, and bowls. The same sprung boxbed and chairs with the price tags stuck to the bottom.

The next day I wake to a message from Jasper and Leni. I scan Leni’s quickly then close it and mark it as unread. I open Jasper’s with relief.

don’t think of it like an alternative franco

that never works

maybe somewhere new to explore

like one of those crazy conflict countries you worked in

anything will be better than that

on my side, southampton is very bad

this is where hope goes to die

I search for bike stores during breakfast. I had left my bike locked outside a friend’s apartment in Berlin. When I booked the train to Köln, I scheduled it so I would have an hour to get the bike. I still feel frantic recalling it. The desperate search for a scooter to rent. The reckless speed as I weaved through northwest Berlin cutting red lights. And the disbelief then disappointment when there was just no bike to pick up.

A close by bike store pops up. I pack my things and head out. Arriving so late at night, I did not realize my apartment was in a popular district. The streets are heaving and the morning brunch traffic is in full swing. I navigate the outdoor café tables and find the store tucked away in a corner.

"Hi there, I'm looking for an entry level road bike," I say to the assistant.

The assistant, young with trademark cycle cap, takes me to where the road bikes are lined up. They look exceedingly sleek in racing colors of blue, red, and white.

"We're still out of stock of entry level versions. The best we can do is something like this," he says pointing to a low-slung and shiny red model.

I look at the tag. €2000. Far more than I could afford.

“Is there anything else cheaper, maybe a different brand?”

“No, sorry. We’re still pretty badly affected by COVID when it comes to the shipments on the road models. If you wanted something more casual it would be different.”

The next few stores are the same. I feel more the idiot for losing the bike. All I had to do was find a place in Berlin to keep it safe. But you were in such a rush to leave weren’t you? I think angrily. You couldn’t even do that. Yes, but can I spend one day not thinking about it? That why I’m here right. To exercise the whole not-thinking-about-it thing.

Lunch and I return to the apartment. In daylight, the studio seems even smaller. To make space, I put everything unnecessary in the wardrobe. Even with the adjustment, the kitchen and bathroom loom close. Moving between them I feel the irritation when you cannot separate something you want to separate.

I try searching for secondhand bike stores. A listing shows one on the city outskirts. Their website says they up-cycle. Re-use and re-build old bikes. I smile reading it. I hated the idea of an un-used bike.

The s-bahn takes me there. It rattles through the city west and I see commercial buildings give way to apartment buildings, houses, and parks. From the elevated train track, it’s easy to see how the parks infuse the grey pavements and roads with green. Then the industrial quarter starts and the grey surges back.

My phone vibrates. Leni has sent another message. I check it the same as before then reply to Jasper’s earlier message.

not surprised about southampton

you in a country town is a great joke but terrible plan

also agree with you on here

this was my decision after all

and anywhere is better than living in those conflict zones

anyway I am trying to stay positive

in fact I am doing it right now

journey has led me to the edge of the city

if I do not return

tell them I died doing what I love

Upcycling is a warehouse. A long driveway leads to a squat wide building. I am apprehensive until I see spare bike parts inside. A small sign points down a staircase and I descend. It is dark with no light. The steps finish and I take a slow step forward, apprehensive again. Somewhere a sensor lights clicks, and a spectacularly crowded hallway lights up. Bikes and bike parts are everywhere. Hung on the wall. Littering the ground. It is a mechanic's dream.

"Einen moment," a voice says from down the hall.

I approach, marveling the mix match the bikes represent. This is the opposite of those sleek store bikes. Parts were moved as needed. Wheels switched. Cranks and pedals swapped without hesitation.

"Ja?" says an assistant emerging from behind a bicycle he was working on.

“Hey. I was looking for a road bike under 1,000 EUR. Reckon you could help?” I say opting for directness.

“Ja, sure. Follow me.”

We delve deeper into the clutter and veer into a side room. They are a line of unused wheel rims and next to them a silver, black, and blue vintage road bike.

“This is the only one we currently have in that price range. We just finished refurbishing it. Its 1991 and has a solid 105 shimano gear set.”

“1991?” I say surprised, “Same year as me.”

The assistant smiles, “Well then, it is an easy choice. Hey, I will even cut off 50 euros for that. It is really when you were born?”

“Yeah really, I can show you my license if you want?”

“No, I trust you. Plus, I can tell how much you like it.”

There is no need to correct him, the bike is gorgeous. The drop handles had sky blue tape and the front end of the frame was a deep ocean blue before grading into the aluminum silver and black of the back end.

“You got me. How much does it cost?”

“Well normally 800 but I will do 750 like we said.”

“Can I take it now?” I ask hopefully. The idea of taking the train when I owned this seems absurd.

“Oh, sure,” the assistant replies surprised. “Just give me ten minutes to do a final check on it. Anyway, you can always come back later if there are any issues.”

Twenty minutes later I wheel the bike out. Night has fallen and the warehouse lights are dim. I lean the bike against a wall and check my phone. Leni has not sent anything but Jasper has replied.

so cryptic

please don’t join a cult franco

or join one with excellent costumes at least

feel like that’s the only positive thing about a cult

also have you told leni you left?

she just called asking where you were

I frown and switch to the camera app on the phone. I take a photo of the bike. It needs a name I think to distract myself. It’s too beautiful to not have one. I take another picture then send both to Jasper.

sorry about her calling

I’ll deal with it

in other news, I have the answer to my problems

his name is severino

he was born the same year as me

The Next Moment

I pass

Indistinct reality

Of airport interiors

Designer brands punctuating

Bench cities

I feel alone

But not sad

Everyone is adrift here.

I board another plane

The cabin darkens

Casting me into limbo

Between countries and days

The hurt-to-look-at

Sunlight

Is drawn shut

I could be

Between selves even.

Where am I going now?

Am I heading home?

To Sydney heat

That holds me

Where amiable gestures, and people

Appease.

Or am I heading back out?

To Iraq

Long desert drives

Passing conflict-pocked buildings

Where quiet evenings

Veil the extreme

Raping and brutalizing

Past.

Or finally

Europe bound

Three weeks of Spanish beer

Sun beating across and on me

Harbouring ever-nascent dreams

Of making this status quo.

So the hours pass

Dimly acknowledging

The untrammelled clouds

Passing below

The last five years

Seemingly

Only moments

Flashes of colour

And now

Descending to land

I do not know from where

The next moment comes.

Sydney Return

Prone on Sydney beach

High tide

Darkens the sand, with moisture

Low-lying moonlight

Shades sea and land, the same

Approaching waves

Embellish the horizon

With their curling white.

Gazing out

I cannot, conjure

The hate

That motivated, my escape

From this special space.

Days later

Afternoon sun failing

I buy a 6-pack

Exchanging conversation with the clerk

We laugh, his tone

Jocular, breezy

Makes me unconsciously, lean in

Relax

Why did I leave?

Sun finally falls

In nearby park

Four of us, splay across grass

I crack open the beer

Observing, countless groups doing the same

The oncoming dusk

Gifts us all

Soft pink glow

And someone in a group nearby

Catches me staring

I smile back

So as to say

I left Sydney

And now I am back.

Goat Trails

We skirt the villages

On the goat trails

Searching for those displaced

The villagers avoid us

As they avoid, those we seek.

In a rudimentary concrete shelter

We find half a family

Of the children remaining

One has an appalling skin condition

I do not need the translator

To ask for how long.

A woman, only recently young

Emerges from another house

She lives alone with her elderly mother

The translator explains

Then in the van, takes a heavy breath

She will never get married now.

We spot a hut

Isolated from the rest

The man who steps out

Has etched lines for a face

I came here six years ago

His voice rasps

With my truck, family

And all my worldly things

I nod politely

Looking at what is left

And return quickly to the van.

Backseat View

They texted back, the party was

Thirty minutes up the beach

Come join us!

Clutching a beer, I readily agreed

And paid the meal before ordering a taxi.

It arrived, a white and enormous van

Take me to the beach!

I proclaimed jubilantly

Climbing into the cavernous back seat

The driver did not share my enthusiasm

As he gingerly directed the white whale over speed bumps.

Finally, driving out of town

I saw his logic

Cradled in the seat’s recesses

I saw the outlines of passing palm trees

Against a moonlit sky

The dim and filtered white light making the visages clear.

It was a view outside of time

That my recently hungover

And recently not, mind

Could barely comprehend

But in the darkness of that excessively empty back seat

I could be humbled, and was

By the fact I could be a spectator

To such precisely arranged beauty.

I am not proud of my lifestyle

Listless without location

Oscillating between lucidity and otherwise

But if it brings me this

Then I am happy.

The Boy's Gaze

Aid worker finishes his speech

The audience nods

My gaze drifts

To a grubby and wretched boy

Watching us

Through the cross-knit fence of the camp enclosure.

His hands are cut

From the garbage he rummages

His face sun-burned

From the sunrise to sunset hours

He works.

Meanwhile

A thousand rockets fly in Syria

Another armed group declares war

Earth collides, flesh is displaced

And a mass of humanity flows across

Parched and war-pocked terrain.

Yet, all I see

Is grubby and beaten boys

Leaning across sun-baked wires

Staring and asking in their gaze

Why do you have it better?