Gringo Go Home

“Fine, go.”

It was at that demonstration on Calle Escudieri. Red paint, shouting, screaming, really, the press of flesh and the smell of sweat and anger and hate. You were yelling in Catalan, and you were so angry, and the guy next to us was carrying a sign that said FUCK AMERIKKKA, and all I wanted was to sit with my dogs by the pond in the woods near the house where I grew up, the leaves and the grass so green in August, the trunks of the oaks imperturbable, the air humid and heavy with oxygen, the breathing of the trees.

“I meant for you to come with me,” I said, and for a second I thought you were going to hit me, or spit in my face.
“Are you insane?”
“Not forever. Just for a while. To rest.”
“No.”
“I’m not talking about getting a mortgage and a car loan and credit cards. I’m not saying let’s have kids in the suburbs and drive a giant car and drink oil out of champagne flutes. I just want to visit, see my parents, catch up with friends. A month, two months.”
“No.”
“Don’t you miss anyone? You’re not at all curious about what’s going on at home?”
“This is what’s going on, and that’s not my home anymore.”
“The stamp on your passport says tourist, same as mine.”

All that chanting and pushing and those garbled bullhorn voices made it impossible to think, made it seem like only a drastic reaction would do. For the record, I’m sorry about what I said—it wasn’t true at all.