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There is mud on my rental’s tyres from the road leading to our rental tiny house.

The people here are welcoming and curious. We’re the outliers, blue and red. A different brand of English on our lips.


The roads are just a little too narrow. The temperatures stay just a little too cold. And yet

I, keeper of my most negative feelings, find myself at home in paradise.

We have windmills back home. And rolling hills posing at mountains. And forests and towns parked at the base of those hills. We have rainfall and weird insects and grass. And yet

I, seeker of passion in all things mundane, cannot remember this beauty at home.

Is it the people who are intoxicating? Their immediate kinship as humans seems freely available. Is it the hills? Their impression of mountains seeming more convincing than the one’s I’ve seen in our own lands. Is it the roads? They wind without as much concern for safety; sprouting from larger cities the way a heavy branch barely touches the sky. Perhaps the safety is in the unpredictability. Do the people love this as I now do? Or is this town a coffee stain on their roadmaps?

I sit under the constant threat of rain, worried that 
I, the penman of my heart’s journal, will reduce the memory of this moment to the most vague details.

I wonder if we’ll ever be here again.

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