If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

“There are days when everything I see seems to me charged with meaning: messages it would be difficult for me to communicate to others, define, translate into words, but which for this very reason appear to me decisive. They are announcements or presages that concern me or the world at once: for my part, not only the external events of my existence but also what happens inside, in the depths of me; and for the world, not some particular event but the general way of being of all things.” 

— Italo Calvino, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler

"Not Inferno. . ."

"One can only search for cities of the future by assembling pieces of cities from the present; and yet, the Khan asks, what if the ultimate city is that of the Inferno?
...
And Polo said:

‘The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by living together.

There are two ways to escape suffering it.

The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it.

The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno,
then make them endure,
give them space.’” 

-- Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

...and Whiskers on Kittens...

Tamara de Lempicka

1. Art Deco and the 1930's

Art Deco affected all areas of design throughout the 1920s and 1930s, including architecture and industrial design, as well as the visual arts such as painting, the graphic arts and film. At the time, this style was seen as elegant, glamorous, functional and modern. There is something about this world of design (mirrored by the psychological culture of the time period) between the two world wars that highlights a certain sense and vision of progress, of hope, efficiency, cleanliness and simplicity. In the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, the distinctive style of Art Deco was shaped by 'all the nervous energy stored up and expended in the War.'

2. The Magical, Mystical, incredibly sexy ©Slurpee.

It is cold. Slush-like-but-not-a-©Slushy. Like shaved ice but not ©Shaved Ice. A ©Slurpee is the best of every world of frozen confection-- sweet, cold, colorful and simple. Like snow. With flavor. (In fact, who didn't do that as a kid? Run out to the freshly fallen snow, collect it in a cup and pour juice over it? ... no one...? Just me...? Well for all of you who weren't frozen refreshment obsessed, or are from the warmer climes, I am telling you this trick was magic.) When I was in still at Groves High School in Metro-Detroit (before my Interlochen sojourn), my friends and I (specifically Bill Bradley, Justin Bodary and Katie Battersby) thought that driving to the 7-11 for a giant ©Slurpee was the ultimate in "killing-time-and-aimlessly-hanging-out-which-means-driving-around-the-suburbs-because-we-can-do-that-but-cannot-yet-drink" activities. The pure dietary joys of the DIET PEPSI Slurpee. Not to mention the Crystal Light Slurpee. (Hellllls yeah). As I grew up? The alcoholic ©Slurpee became my favorite cocktail. What is that you ask? Why that would be the MOJITO. Sí. And why do I love it? Um. Because it is an alcoholic ©Slurpee...? Nuff said there.

3.   Carnivals

They are dark magic and I love them. I love the Tilt-A-Whirl. I love skee ball. I love the cotton candy. But mostly I adore the darkly magical atmosphere— the aesthetic ache, the ever-so-slightly twisted beauty of it all. I love it all. I love to share it with one other person. But mostly I love to go alone.

4. Naming things.

Inanimate objects. Toys. Animals. I love names and their meanings in general (Incidentally: Alexandra? (Greek: Αλεξάνδρᾱ) is the feminine form of the given name Alexander, which is a romanization of the Greek name Αλέξανδρος (Alexandros). Etymologically, the name is a compound of the Greek verb ἀλέξειν (alexein) "to defend" and the noun ἀνδρός (andros), genitive of ἀνήρ (anēr) "man". Thus it may be roughly translated as "protector and defender of mankind." Amazing.) I used to own a lot of Baby Naming books as a child, not imagining my own children someday mind you (because I am just notthatgirl), but instead, pouring over the etymology of the names within the pages. It ignited my imagination! Who IS Simon? Isabella? Nicholas? Anders? Ilona? What do they do? Where do they come from? Naming is science, psychology, sociology and anthropology in one. And nothing captures a person place or things better, than the perfect name.

EXAMPLES...

My dog [that I do not yet own, but might someday]: Kevin. A deeply normal, deeply human name without the slightest trace of whimsy. 'Rover' and 'Spike' be damned! 'Ginger' or 'Blondie'? I say 'pah!' 'Bob' or 'Jack' even are so normal and human that they point at themselves-- NO. Kevin is a lovely sounding, but right-in-the-middle-of-normalcy name that when you think of it, just does not belong to a dog. But it will...

My cat [again, fictional cat]: Dr. Rosenbloom. Because.... well, just because. Because the thought of a cat not having a name but a title delights me. Satirical (but only satirical) whimsy with cats is allowed. Picture it at the vet: "The doctor will see you now," the nurse will say. And I will say, "Dr. Rosenbloom will see YOU now..."

5. Trains

Watching them, listening to them, taking them places. It is a throwback to the Golden Age of Travel (if there ever was such a thing... I might have just made that up... but I think it should exist...), it is green, and relaxing and no-fuss, and far and away my transportation of choice. Perhaps, (politics aside--everybody just caaaaalm down) this is due to my unutterable love of the literary character Dagny Taggart. Perhaps it is due to Scottish dramatist David Greig's beautiful play Europe. I don't know. I think a great deal of nature, and always look for ways to protect our planet and let it flourish. But, I also believe in the equally moving and terribly important to recognise the great, often mammoth accomplishments of mankind. Man is capable of both great destruction, yes, and we so often hear of that. But of creation too: long stretches of steel that disappear into the infinite horizons, train cars that move at seemingly impossible speeds, tracks capable of connecting vast continents? It makes me think of everything I believe in. "It is not death that we wish to avoid, but life that we wish to live."

Thus far in my lifetime my favorite train rides have been The Red Arrow overnight train from Moscow to St. Petersburg, the beautiful commute from London Euston to Sheffield (no laughing, that is for real-- travel by day and check out that countryside), and the Amtrak service from New York to Washington DC. Pure. Class.

6. Talking to strangers on all forms of transportation (planes, trains or automobiles... I can't stop myself...) My parents, in one of those classic and unbelievable love stories, met on an airplane. My father let my mother out of the aisle exiting from a flight in Madrid from Barcelona during the bicentennial summer of 1976. Mom is one of those people that likes to wait for everyone to get off the plane so she can take her time exiting. She read a book to pass the time while the anxious and angry Europeans fought their way off. Dad, saw her sitting by the window waiting, and, stunned by her beauty (though he was quite the looker himself), was so speechless all he could do was gesture lamely with his hand for her to exit, blocking a tidal wave of angry Europeans behind him.

And once on the Piccadilly line I saw a young student sitting beside a large, stuffed dog in the vein of a carnival prize. The dog was the size of a human, bright blue and taking up a seat of his very own. "May I?" I asked the student and he moved the dog and placed it on his lap.

There was a pause.

"So..." I said, "what's his name?"

The student looked at me through his glasses with a slight, good-humored surprise. "He does not have one."

"Oh."

"Do you want to name him?"

HELL YES I DID. After all-- I LOVE NAMING THINGS. But then I totally blanked. Nothing was coming. So I blurted out the most obvious choice I could think of-- "Alexander!"

"Alexander? That is a Greek name! I am Greek!"

"Really?"

"Yes, George, nice to meet you."

"Greek George-- as in Jorges?"

"Yes! That is good."

"I worked in a Greek restaurant as a teenager,"  I am sort of proud.

"What is your name?"

I hung my head in shame slightly... "Alexandra."

"Ah I see!"

George told me he was a student studying Economics at one of the London Universities. Then he asked what I did and I pointed to a Carousel poster and said-- "uhh...that's me." AND THEN GEORGE TOOK THE TIME TO COME TO THE SHOW! He is (and was) terribly nice and I hope he an Alexander are doing well.

7. Addressing points in numerical order.

I would assume this one is self-explanatory.

8. Amber

(or, technically, resinite) is fossilized tree resin (not sap), which has been appreciated for its color and natural beauty since Neolithic times. (It has been appreciated by me since 1983 minimum). Found primarily in Scandinavia and elsewhere around the Baltic Sea (it is generally accepted that the amber from the Baltic region is the world’s finest, although the word "amber" itself is derived from the old Arabic word "anbar"); and because it originates as a soft, sticky tree resin, amber sometimes includes animal and plant material as inclusions. There are five classes of amber, defined on the basis of their chemical constituents. (Bwahaha I know stuff about amber because I like it so much).

Amber is used to symbolize power, command and authority. It indicates that rewards come through the productive intellect and the harvest of creative faculties. Wearing amber, either as a stone or as a string of beads, brings victory despite competition and opposition. It counteracts the dangers of loss through law. Looks. Function. Depth. Amber: What's not to like?

9. All things Muppet

Someone once asked me which Muppet I would be and I said this was a very difficult question because there was a pronounced difference between the Muppet we wish to be and the Muppet we are.

I suppose this is same with almost any “if you could be any XX what would it be?” question but therein lies the crux— the operative word here is the “if you could” versus the “if you were.” (I'm not certain if it is clear, but semantics are sort of delightful and important to me. But I digress...)

So. If I could be any Muppet? Tough. Kermit and Grover is as close as I can narrow it down without an extended essay.

But if I were any Muppet? I'm afraid the truth is that I am most likely a combination of Snuffalupagus, Bert, and Statler & Waldorf (They are two ornery, disagreeable old men who first appeared in the The Muppet Show heckling the rest of the cast from their balcony seats?)

...Yourselves?

10. Venice

It is at the beginning of Chapter Six in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities that Kublai Khan confronts Marco Polo about the subject of Venice.

“There is still one of which you never speak.”
Marco Polo bowed his head.
“Venice,” the Khan said.
Marco smiled. “What else do you believe I have been talking to you about?”
The emperor did not turn a hair. “And yet I have never heard you mention that name.”
And Polo said: “Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice.”

Marco Polo eventually admits that all his described cities are one and the same city: Venice, his Home. His point of origin. The Khan marvels at this.

So do I. Because it is not merely Calvino's artistry and vision that articulates this fine point upon everyone's individual relationship with their Home, but he defines as best he can the evocative nature of Venice itself in a literal sense. Venice is a stirring place-- sexy, dangerous, elegant, nurturing, beautiful, not at all unlike the many facets of a living woman. And it is as if the spirit of this woman has cast a spell over every one that has ever known her, changed them, then altered them eternally. Then suddenly, and without warning, she disappeared-- and we are all left in the wake of our memories, searching for the way she made us feel, the way she made us think, see, live.. or perhaps just simply to be with her, again. And in traveling to Venice you will not encounter the woman. No. Rather you will encounter all of those who lived within her birthplace. They are stunned; haunted by their lost love. They see her in every flicker of light upon the ornate glass figures. They smell her scent around every narrow cobbled alleyway. Her image is reflected in every canal. Her face behind every Carnivale mask.  

“Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little...”

"Subterranean Blues" - ©Nick Bantock

25 Things

Apparently this is the biggest case of narcissism in Internet history. 5 million notes have appeared on facebook in the past week. 5 MILLION facts.

* * *

1. I am addicted to badcrimedrama. The worse it is, the better.

2. This addiction to badcrimedrama has, in many ways, made me particularly suspicious and careful. Definitely paranoid. I sometimes think about things like "my finger prints are all OVER that..." or, "why would anyone throw their napkin in the bin when it is in plain sight? That NEEDS to be incinerated...." It's probably not healthy.

3. I have flat feet.

4. What About Bob? is my undisputed favourite film of all time. In a top ten list of favourite films, Bob would take up the top three slots. I could watch it on repeat, I could probably quote the entire thing from beginning to end (with intonations and pauses, inflections, music cues and everything). The last time I watched it? Yesterday in my dressing room between shows. Oh! And when I was young, I put a microphone up to the television and recorded it on audiotape so I could listen to it at summer camp and in the car. THAT my friends, is love. Every single time I watch (or, uh, hear) this film I get something new from it. Bob is not only humourous, Bob is strangely moving and enlightened. And well! I could probably write an entire post about Bob and indeed, just might...

5. I love owls. (Also, a friend of mine has a child who thought my name was "Owl" instead of "Al" and it stuck.)

6. I love Halloween. And Autumn. Both of these things combine two of my favourite things: a sort of dark and sinister aesthetic, and the melancholy nature of the fall season. I have a dark side I guess, and it revels in that time of year.

7. My favourite food in all the world is watermelon. But it HAS to be good. There is just no point in eating it if it is mushy or sour or mealy. But good watermelon? I could eat it all day every day. For every meal. Forever.

8. I'm fascinated by redheads. And redheaded culture. I like that redheaded-ness is a genetic mutation. I love how weird it is that redheads need more anesthesia than everyone else. My first proper boyfriend was a redhead ("with hair the color of a ripe orange peel"). I know three left handed redheads (one of whom was that first boyfriend). Redheaded-ness is not only a hair colour, it is a STATE OF MIND...

9. I have a very mysterious connection to the letter "J." Excluding a few key people, the majority of the major players in my life along the way have had J names, or had some connection to the letter J themselves. Examples...
Childhood best friend: Jessica.
Childhood boyfriend: James.
First proper boyfriend: Jeremey.
Brother: Jordan.
Love of my youth: Justin.
Kindred Spirit: Josh
Other major friends: another Jeremy, another Justin and another Jessica.
The one that got away: Jim.
I had a pre-teen crush on another Josh, taken over (in various ways) from a Jill a Jyoti and a Justine. I've been taught very important things by two Jeans, two Judys and a Julia, sung for Jeff, and of course, played Julie Jordan opposite Jeremiah James.

When pointing this phenomenon out to childhood friend Justin Boday, he nodded his head suspiciouly and then pointed to my parents quizzically. What about your Parents Mike and Cathy? Their names don't start with J, his expression read. I thought for a moment and replied: "Jom" and "Jad." Aaaand it stuck.

There are over 20 other Js which shall remain nameless, but they are OUT THERE (and I am certain they know who they are)...

10. I am really.... REALLY good at pinball. Don't challenge me to duel....REALLY GOOD...

11. I know that in admitting this next piece of trivia I will, without question, move down a few pegs in people's estimation: I know it is absolute garbage, but I secretly love Ghost Whisperer and cry at every.single.episode. It is bad. It is bad bad television and I love it. I. love. it. Iloveit. And I am NOT ASHAMED. Yes I am. I am ashamed. But now it is out there and that is that. Am I embarrassed that when we first tech-ed the final scene of Carousel that my reply was "Oh my god that light is so magical and JUST like the one in Ghost Whisperer!" ? --Yes. Yes I am. Am I discomfited that sometimes when (prepare yourself) "G-dub" is on, I turn off my PHONE? Absolutely. Do I care? Not really.

12. I famously get song lyrics mixed up. And allow the confusion to perpetuate within me for decades at a time. Famous (totally sincere) misunderstandings:

Hard Day's Night
"...and I've been working like a log...."

"I Say a Little Prayer For You"
"forever and ever you'll stay in my heart and I will hug you..."

and my favourite lyrical mix-up of all time:

I Will Survive:
"I just walked in to find you here with the fat whore upon your face...."

13. I love red. Anything red. It has always been my colour. I love to wear it, to look at it, if I could, I would bathe in it.

14. I don't think I have ever loved a city more than I loved, and continue to love, Venice.

"Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little." -- Italo Calvino

15. One time, my friend Kit took me to Bastille Day at the French Embassy in London. Perks included, among other things, a security check at the front gate, shaking hands with the ambassador (his hand was incredibly soft), an Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triumph both made of baguette, and accidentally walking in on the Ambassador's wife in the toilet. Somehow, a hearty "pardon" just didn't cut it. Fantastic.

16. Sometimes, when I don't feel like getting hassled, I pretend to be English just so I can get on with my day without talking about Friends or politics. Sue me.

17. I am really good at making salads. And naming them. If I were to put out a personal ad, I would list salad making as one of my virtues because I am really very talented. Savoury, sweet, pasta, bean, Greek, Italian, Michigan, you NAME it, I can make it and you will love it. I promise. I once made a salad in Sheffield for our New Year celebrations with pomegranate seeds and called it "Persephone's Delight." Good, huh? Or what about "The Traverse City Surprise"?-- my Michigan theme salad made with apple and pear slices, (what I call) "yuppie greens" and dried Michigan cherries?

18. There was a period of my life when I thought I was going to be a meteorologist. I really love everything to do with weather, especially clouds.

19. I mix up words ALL the time. It is an Al-ism. Not important grammatical things like their there and they're, but words with a slightly more complex make-up, insinuating that the psychological blundering is something that lingers deep within my psyche. (I welcome and encourage theories.) One would think that a fairly intelligent girl such as myself would never mix up the words "antidote" and "anecdote," would one? But I do, and many others. And perhaps, if I am honest, I sooooometimes lean in to this little character flaw, and push it a bit, making mistakes I am already aware of, to spread amusement and joy to those around me!

20. My dad invented light beer. Seriously. It's true. Ask my mom. You can call her. I always do when people don't believe me. (And no, we're not filthy stinking rich. Dad sold the patent long before light beer became huge. But it is okay, he was too busy saving people's lives to bother with brewery and such...)

21. I once strolled through Borough Market during The Great Depression of '06, saw a giant rat eating a bit of what I hope was sausage, and thought to myself, “My life is over.” It wasn’t. (Obviously).

22. I love a good footnote.*

23. I am obsessed with All. Things. Russian.

24. For reasons unknown, I pretty much exclusively wear solid colours and simple patterns (if patterns are present at all). By simple I mean, clean, not-at-all-busy polka dots or stripes... and that is pretty much it. Any adventures I take in to the world of pattern are always precarious, and if I really think about it, I believe only one dress I own contains a pattern I would classify as "busy." I have no idea where this comes from. I wonder if branching out is necessary... or if I should just accept that I like what I like..?

25. My parents and I never discussed the fact that Santa Claus was not real. Mom and I still talk about Santa as if he is coming to dinner like Elijah. (Or, say, an actual house guest). It is just a sort of blasee thing, you know, Santa will be coming, naturally. We sort of knowingly talked around the subject during my teens, but still have never really discussed it. I like that. We are a magical family.

* who doesn't?

Return...

Hello there,

I have recently returned from the states, helping my mother clear out my childhood home (she is moving West very soon), and low and behold, in the musty depths of belongings, lay a pile of National Geographics circa 1926-1937. My eyes widen, I oggle, I gasp (one from the dust, two from the magazines) and select a copy at random: "1929" it declares in vintage font.

I peruse the contents, opening the pages unsystematically (this is how I traditionally read anything that isn't fiction - I select a page at random, usually near the back, and "read" it backwards... perhaps the in Jew in me...?), and what should be starring back at me but a full spread of Old Ronda looking exactly the same. I gasp again, this time inhaling a mouthful of dust, sending me in to a double frenzy of excitement and wind constriction! When I finally get settled once again I dive back into the pages, only to discover the entire 1929 issue devoted to Spain, with forty or so pages dedicated solely to Andalucia. Stunned, mouth agape at the seeming coincidence, I poured over every delicate, brittle page. From The House of the Moorish King, to the bullrings, to The Alhambra, every image is as evocative, haunting and spiritual as the memory, (with an incredible sprinkling of time). The image of The Alhambra, in fact, appeared identical to my memories, with the very fine exception of a singular moving ghost of a woman dressed in white period attire moving through the distance. Magic. And to think that "1929" had merely lay, anticipating perusal, all this time.

You know, it is funny, when we say we return it naturally implies we've been somewhere else. But thanks to a collection historic National Geographics, and a handful of packing away one's past, I have more than returned from Michigan, I have returned from Somewhere Else, (which I like to think of as a town like any other). Back to London with it's soot and cloud and distinct lack of summer. Yes. It may still be Monday in the middle of our lives, but we are not who we were when we began. Italo Calvino puts it brilliantly in Invisible Cities:

"...what he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey, because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in waiting for you in foreign, not-yet-possessed places."

And of course, I suppose this is largely how I felt upon return from Spain, and therefore have not been in touch sooner. Return presented me with a second quest: the search for words to articulate the experience. So much returning, ha! Funny how one is never prepared for the same ritual that occurs every time: being propelled back into the mainstream and challenged to bring what we learned into the busiest corners of our lives. The world immediately begins to forcefully intrude. The ability to settle into silence evaporates like fog. Ready or not we are presented with new tasks. And of course, the outer trappings of our lives still appear relaively undisturbed, while internally tremendous change has taken place. Post-Spain I was Rip Van Winkle (sans beard): a mystery to myself, walking around the kitchen muttering "how did I get here?" Looking in the mirror to find a familliar stranger looking back.

All that being said, I do hope since our time together your lives have been full, and that the warmth and colours of Spain have not yet worn off. I feel it's breezes every now and again and I do feel contented. How was the remainder of your trip? I thought of those who remained peacefully behind while I was being plunged into an array of concerts and auditions, (there was one, particularly amusing meeting in which I had to be a blind Victorian socialite being viciously eaten by an CGI invisible werewolf to be played at some point by Benicio Del Toro...I don't know how a person is supposed to do that really...). Anyway, I hope the summer has been kind to you.

I begin rehearsals for Carousel in a few weeks, and have been taking time to enjoy the calm before the storm. (You certainly have a pair of house seats at The Savoy with your name on them if you are ever in this neck of the woods.) And speaking of necks of the woods (??) I am hoping to be in the Northwest someday soon (L and A extended a lovely invitation, plus a new West coast base for my mother should get me out there post-haste) and I will certainly let you know if that ever comes to be.

In the meantime, please know I think of you often, and do hope our paths cross again someday soon.

Sending the fondest wishes from across the sea,

Alexandra x 

"I've come to look for America..."

"Kathy," I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
"Michigan seems like a dream to me now
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I've come to look for America..."

-- Paul Simon

A traveller. Perhaps that's it. Though my travels hardly feel worthy of comparison to those of the greats-- Rosalind's full circle to and from Arden, Bilbo Baggins' there and back again. I am no explorer like Vespucci, not romantic enough for a gypsy nor pious enough for a pilgrim. Ahh America. How I had forgotten you, and how I longed to remember. Was blind but now I see, (as they say). And though I know I am no great traveller of Shakespearean or Historical proportion, I share with them and with us all, a cardinal desire: all I have ever wanted is what we all long for-- a place in the world. A home. 

I feel perhaps like Marco Polo in Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities... In Calvino's book, the great explorer Marco Polo entertains an aging Kubla Khan by recounting tales of 55 cities he has visited in his travels. As Marco Polo continues to impart his experiences, he, willingly or un, revels connections between the cities that leave the reader left to wonder whether the accounts of his destinations actually represent different aspects of a single city; a unique and unrivaled place, in Polo's case, his beloved Venice. 

Marco Polo thus embodies two classic symbolic travellers. First, Odysseus: the one who, either by force or by choice, denounces a home he does not realise he loves. He thus condemns himself to a life of wandering and homeless-ness, slowly losing sight and memory of the only place he longs to return to. 

"Memory's images, once they are fixed in words, are erased," Polo said. "Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little."

Second, Dorothy: the one who seeks adventure abroad, only to discover their heart's desire was "in their own backyard" all along. 

"Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Irene under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Irene."

Have I assumed myself the former only to discover I am, in fact, the latter? What bliss that truth would be! Have I travelled the world long enough? Have I in fact discovered home was always there, patiently waiting for me to earn and deserve it? Observing Calvino observing Venice is a reminder of how often the controlled, measured world of knowledge and assumption fails us. So much of life resists the facts. As Khan discovers: imagining a"Venice" is imagining yourself. And though an unsettling exercise, it is necessary, perhaps. I believe my trip to America and Home, was precisely that.

Welcome Home Al. 

I will return shortly. And new. 

"...what he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his journey, because the traveler's past changes according to the route he has followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in waiting for you in foreign, not-yet-possessed places."

-- Italo Calvino