Foreign child

Small, small world we leave in.

And to talk about globalization is now banal. Yes, like every reshuffled, reflexed-upon, logically-reasoned and rationally-synthesised, -explained and –evaluated issue. Alright, but can we really flatten the chaotic, exotic, dramatic and comic world of globalization with a mention of common, banal?

If yes, who can in a word, or a post or a journal entry fully explain the fear of moving to a new country, to a cosmopolitan, busy city, and yet feel isolated from a world that is not his/her own? Who can explain the first night’s restlessness, the enchantment and comfort instead at the soft chant of foreign voices from outside the window in a lonely, moony night?

Who can explain the unavoidable smile of mine, walking through the corridors of the Turkish market in The Hague? - which is Turkish, by name, but then it’s Surinamese too, and Dutch of course, Chinese, Italian, Arabic, and maybe also Bangladeshi, etc…

Who can explain the fear of passing in front of a men-only Shisha café near HollandSpur, and how could a sign (unexisting in fact) tell any better than their eyes on you that it is men only, their perfect circle of words and glances protected from their foreign hosts by the fume of their cigarettes?

Who can better explain my open-wide mouth at staring at dozens of dressed up kids lining up the roads whilst my tram silently passes by them, whilst they wait for Santa Klaus who arrived yesterday from Spain to the Hague, through the mythical crossing of the Pyrenees?

Or my surprise at the awkward sign Koffie Huis Venice?

And finally, who can explain my sunk of the heart, the anxiety in the chest, the temples beating and flushing cheeks, as the Spanish secretary of state for development speaks of her projects in Latin America? That set-on the spot-go feeling, like on the pool board before a race?

How can any word, html or .doc sheet explain all this better than simply images and emotions? A soiree of contemporary dance at the Dutch Dance Festival drains me of every tear I had been controlling and suppressing throughout my day. Why these tears in the theatre but not on the road? Why are emotions adult when in fiction, but not through reality?

We live in a more complicated world than our rational universe can code. Shouldn’t we pick up our childhood pastels again then and start drawing our excitement on every pavement we walk, letting this alone draw step by step our next direction? At another soiree of the Festival I absorb every beat and cry of five burning hip-hop slash tip-tap slash rap and pop young talents, to spike the adrenaline and jot down these few flashes of life. Likewise today like a scatterbrain kid I climb up fences to reach my spot of view over dunes and ramps on Scheveningen beach and let the roams of thousands of breaking motorcycle engines pump my blood.

An early morning spent raffling through old boxes brought out forgotten paintings, photos, diplomas and poems. Yet one discovers so much life in them through present dreams and near plans, as to sweep away any dust they might have been veiled in since. With blind faith in them, I approach and draw my dreams.

A life of travels bars your eyes and ears wide and open. But the greatest satisfaction is living through every place's emotions. No more logical synthesis makes the understanding of them any deeper. Our own childhood eyes bring life to every place we touch. Not viceversa.

LaPapayaVerde hopefully will simply be a kid's scared or fascinated glance over the outside world.