NEITHER HERE NOR THERE


You think you are back and into the swing of things (even though you're half-employed and have a new boyfriend you've seen everysingleday since he picked you up at the airport where he waited yet another hour while the woman from the Dept. of Agriculture interrogated you about cows and washed your shoes as you stood there sweating and getting madder and madder). You are used to the high prices and too-big bananas and wide empty streets and overweight underdressed people and the overflowing closets and your toofast bicycle and teaching yoga to miniscule groups of people and preparing your own food in your fabulously huge and well-appointed kitchen and wearing tight black western clothes with boots each and every day (still drinking fresh homemade chai though) when you open the front door and see some dark square thing hiding behind the stairs. No, it's not the charming number-cruncher from GreenLeaf who wanted you to get him a job in Amer-ica but the cloth-wrapped, windowed box o' books you had Neeru send to you back in May via suface mail when you were wobbly from yet another bacteria invasion. And it looks like all of them made it. Now, to find space for them.