Brock { Abroad }

While absentmindedly straightening up my surroundings, (fidgeting, or otherwise avoiding more writing) my head cocked at the sound of a news report CNN was playing. I recognize the name as if someone has just uttered my hometown; something that wouldn’t be very likely in my current whereabouts, or a lot of places, really. Showing footage of memories that play in my head like a panoramic film, it brings me wandering into the scene; sweeping across the urban landscape of a Delhi street, an attractive American reporter encounters denture-makers, ear cleaners, even dentists.
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Perhaps the best way to describe this city is like Amsterdam’s bitchier sister who is just as hot, but more in the “I can kick your ass” kind of way. As a matter of fact, this city has chewed me up and spit me out, but left me coming back for more. With gusts of salty wind, huge skyscrapers, and an impossible grind of cars, trams, and bicycles, she doesn’t give you the the time to think. People aren’t strolling canals in circles, but crossing bridges with a direct destination in mind. In Rotterdam, you work hard and you play hard. Any questions? If so, catch the nearest train back to Amsterdam; maybe someone up there will give you the time of day.

It’s not surprising, then, that I reached the first obstacle of my trip here. Head spinning, my body lies like a rag on the sofa, my brain is fuzzy, and the television plays movie after movie, as if on repeat. Maybe it is on repeat. I’m not sure. The flu medicine is kicking in…
A foghorn drifts through the window; a bicycle bell jingles; People scamper by,
bicycle chains crank along screeching brakes as a stoplight turns red. A tram groans along its creaking tracks, crunching corners. A horn honks, a bridge erupts, some people (finally) stop. A ship churns along splashing water,
a boy ambles for his ball, a crane cranks overhead. The bridge snaps tight again, it’s rusted rotting chains back in place. The road begins to whip with wet tires.
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