Hi, everyone-
I had the strangest feeling the other day—as I playfully broke free from straight lines in the above illustration—that all of us are walking about our day … all the while quietly saying inside:
I am uncomfortable in this life.
So lay me next to my daughter.
Lay me next to my father.
And lay me next to my wife.
My two living parents stood at the site atop a hill. I doubt that would be their final resting place. They never are very good at sitting still. After all, they dug up my orange-sized still-born brother from our back-yard to bring him here. I never met Israel. This was the first time I saw anything of him.
There’s a similar sense of being dug-up. Especially when we emerge in an open space full of people you don’t know. People who look different. And people who talk differently. Exposed is probably the least deserving word for it. But lonely is another. If Israel was alive, I’d imagine this was how he’d feel.
I’d imagine for one Marco Polo, the road to reach the emperor Kublai Khan was of similar intimidation. The beautiful surrounding wouldn’t matter. You’d immediately search for the closest possible reminder—to home.
Marco was a grown man of 17 by the commencement of his epic journey. Still, he must have inched his back towards his father Niccolò and uncle Maffeo. My tall friends always talk about arriving in a foreign country and being met by stares. And the feeling that they can’t hide. Doesn’t help when we’re 6 feet tall. And everyone else is 4-5 feet tall. Not to mention the obviously different skin color and attire. There’s a feeling that, we’re a target. To Marco, he might as well have thought:
Lay me next to my father, please!
It also doesn’t help, that home for Marco was a medieval city on water: Venice, a floating city that stands upon columns of trees and wood composite. No steel. No concrete. Just—trees.
Why my parents dug Israel up, is similar to why Marco, his dad, and his uncle left their beloved tree-supported Venice. And it’s also the same exact reason why, as it happens, the noodle v. pasta question continued.
Who actually did come first?
Today’s piece—from the discomfort of sticking out like a sore thumb to the comforts of steamy noodle bowls—contends with all this.
Hope you enjoy it!
-Thalia
