I have never perfected coming and going. When I left for college I blocked out how much I missed my best friends. It was emotional survival. Because I was definitely trapped in a cinderblock building with 100 strangers, so I'd better get to like them, and thinking about home choked me so much I couldn't be that chirpy new student we all had to be. When I left college for my grand tour of life at the end of sophomore year, I clung on to every speck of memory. Patrick and I talked constantly. We e-mailed all day, called each other at night, instant messaged in the mornings. When I left Denmark I was determined to be more resilient. And I was. I went to Paris with my mother and didn't cry and didn't think anyone still in Denmark cared I was gone. But as every good repress-er knows, eventually you have to deal with whatever it is. So I've had some catching up to do. To those I've spoken with since leaving: Thank you for your patience and indulgence. I apologize if I've brought you down.

6/22/2001 10:45:51 AM

"What are you, a foreigner?!" my sister said. We were in the super-supermarket near my house, one that stretches for about an acre in every direction.

She pulled me away from the door and led me to the photo department.

Kierkegaard wrote so much about making choices seriously and passionately, with all the presence of God and the will of individuality. But he never dropped off film for processing. I only had nine rolls of film from the entire semester, mostly because I was either too apathetic, unappreciative, absorbed in the experience, or completely forgetful.

What size print would I like my memories on? Would I like doubles? An index print? A photo CD? Can I only wait one hour or am I willing to sweat out the suspense for three days? Do I trust in-store processing? What if I send them out for Kodak processing and THEY NEVER RETURN?

After making a harrowing decision to send them away for processing, I
started wandering through the aisles, the rows and rows of sparkling glass juice jars, full of every possible fruit combination.

"You're from here," my sister said.

"I just want to look around," I said.

There was an entire section devoted to hamburger supplies -- relish and yellow mustard, and hamburger buns that the Danes would think of as breakfast food. The freezer section enthralled me. Peanut butter cup ice cream was right there, right in the case.

Then almost-made things. Salads in bags, rice mixes in boxes. Then I came to the aisles of useless things -- plastic things, gadgets, picnic supplies and flimsy toys.

"Can we at least buy something?" my sister asked impatiently. "I need this." She held up a bottle of shampoo that cost four dollars.

"I don't have any money," I said. I reached into my pocket and felt for any change, and came up with 500 Icelandic krona.

She looked at me in disbelief.

6/12/2001 10:02:36 AM

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