Sitting in a railroad station got a ticket for my destination. . .

Early morning.

Things blend together: historic cities on rivers, rolling hills contrasted with brick and cobblestone and concrete; tourists looking up, down, recording it all.  Locals immune or indifferent, tired or angry or bored.  Something else.  Or: expat life, the small winding streets of Cesky Krumlov, other sleepy destinations far away, quaint towns.  Where I am, where I want to be.

I am quintessentially American, loud and demanding –according to my daughter–always falling short.  My life a ong question mark: resiliency? acceptance? resignation? What do I see?

Yesterday was Father’s Day although it passed without a blip in the home of the family hosting me in Budapest.  His four boys uninterested, disengaged, like  American boys everywhere, disappearing into electronic games–even the five year old –although he jumps around demanding my attention; his adorable lisp marks him as younger than  he is.  His father’s way of communication feels forced, the outsider looking in.

The older boys are gone in a moment, mumbling disgruntled nothings.  Their time abroad seen as a chore, something to get through to make in back to America and home, where the same issues await: the new kid at a new school with cliques already formed.   Years they will not be a part of, lost.