Jew Do Communion
Dear Holly,
Today I wandered into a beautiful old church in the hopes of finding its courtyard but found a service instead. It was entirely in french and I understood nothing besides amoreuse but hummed along nevertheless. It was a strange procedure taken very seriously by all involved. The main two at the front wore robes like Robin Hood’s friend Friar Tuck. (I dreamt of a story where a monk boy was seduced into a night of adventure with goth kids and ended up kissing another boy that night.) There was a giant gold chalice, made of plastic, that they poured a substance in, presumably holy water.
Everyone had to eat these tiny crackers in a line; presumably the body of christ. This was the silliest part in my opinion. Some people knelt before the Bishop or his sidekick monk and opened their mouths so he could put the little cracker right on their stuck-out tongue. How sexual! The sidekick monk was kind of cute actually, and the bishop had these big blue eyes that I thought made him an appropriate bishop. Is bishop the correct term? I have no idea.
That’s at the heart of the love affair between me and catholicism, I have no idea what’s going on. It’s a curious little show that makes no sense but seems to be meaningful to all involved.
Well, all but me and my new church friend. She sat before me, had long hair my exact texture and color, blue eyes like mine, and this sideways smile. She was 5. She liked me, I could tell. She looked back at me constantly to observe, look me over, and when I caught her eye she smiled. When we were supposed to open our palms to the sky she raised her hands over her hand and twirled them around. I hope she will think of me for years to come.
Children are very fascinated by me here. They will walk up very close and stare at me. What is it about me that is so intriguing to them, I wonder. That is the only thing consistent in my life, curious children and falling asleep in all the wrong places.
My favorite part of church is when everyone had to bless each other or something, we all had to make eye contact and bow a little. Everyone had old crinkled and smiling faces. I liked to meet their eyes.
The days are hard again. No more sudden miracles like the gay guitar friends. Fined in the metro due to language barrier mistakes by a tall and bossy woman cop. The fine was the cost of a night sleeping here, the cost of two books, 7 crepes, 1 meal that I would have refused to get because it’s too expensive. I couldn’t stop tears from leaking down my face even before I got out into the rain. Crying comes upon me like this, this irrepressible tide of emotion that I still haven’t learned to control. The older I get the more embarrassing it is, I fear I may never not cry when I feel like it. Especially tired and hungry like this, they flow so easily. I got into the light and my tears were hot compared to the cold rain. I hoped someone would console me, and realized only creeps would console a crying woman on the street.
As usual, things are beautiful but I am deeply alone. I made a friend who feels all that I feel in Nice, this terrible exhaustion and loneliness, aimlessness. He has a Eurorail pass too. We are going to meet up in Amsterdam. We can take comfort in each other in this world.
I will get Tinder and try.
I want to go home so badly.
I have nowhere to go home to.
Please can we go to your family’s place in New Hampshire and stay there forever reading and talking and laughing and swimming and running in grass and drinking wine and smoking weed and watching all the movies we were supposed to see?
I miss you
