Things I discovered after arriving:

My pillow from home isn’t necessary.  It could be ditched, should be ditched; the tote bag I am carrying weighs more than the items inside.

Everything is about direction.  I take a circuitous route, arriving here on a Wednesday morning that feels like Tuesday, dizzy with it.

At the hostel on the first night: a girl named Sierra, who is  full of life and energy at 21, traveling alone before returning to Santa Barbara.  I chop onions, tears forming in my eyes.  I question why I need someone else to tell me my worth.

Yesterday I walked everywhere, stopping to have a glass of wine.  A man walks by disheveled asking for coins.  I see him again, blocks later; he approaches.  “I got you,” I say, hands reaching, empty pockets.

This neighborhood is gritty and prosperous at the same time; most buildings graffiti-covered, the streets lined with expensive boutiques, clothing I could never afford but lust for, imagining another life.  I walk into a paper shop and pay too much for postcards, a notebook to fill with empty words.  I take pictures of people: a man wearing pale mint shorts, leaning against his book bag on a wall bordering a river in Berlin; a girl chasing pigeons in the dirty city street.  When I look later the pictures are blurred.