Like a bank of submerged gems, the city of Valparaiso lies dreamy over its sleepless port. She’ll wake up soon. Her streets will fill with throngs of those who lovingly call her Valpo, like the brand name of some superglue or Velcro-type invention. It’s almost tempting to ponder the miracle of an entire populace existing without our recognition or slightest concern.
“You’re getting depressed and you’re talking out of your but,” says Draga, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, like she always does. “Don’t collaborate with your sadness.”
“George bought dog,” she says. The indefinite article doesn’t matter much to Draga. She knows the difference between things that are important and those that are not. “He name him Jerry.”
“Jerry,” I echo. “Can’t wait to meet Jerry.” And my mind takes me to Belgrade, where I dropped my anchor a small eternity ago, where human souls drifted from the clouds and spoke and got names. George’s smile, his pizza’s, his TV that’s always on the Serbian version of MTV; it’s home to me, the most sacred place on earth.
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| Day break in the port of Valparaiso |
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| Day break in the port of Valparaiso |
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| Day break in the port of Valparaiso |
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