8 am. New Bedford.
I walk along the familiar streets, looking at the shop windows (something changes often in Downtown).
Some of the passersby smile at me, Some do not pay attention. One old man looking like a tramp wished good morning.
And once again I can’t believe this is happening to me. It has been 6 years passing by. But sometimes it feels like a moment. During this 6-year-old moment, I found friends and work, learned to speak English (not ” learned” the language, but just learned to communicate in it), learned take myself to Boston every time when a frog-traveler wakes up in me, book tickets and travel around the country, got citizenship and a ton of life experience.
Still, every once in a while I can’t believe it’s happening to me: living in the other half of the world, measuring temperature in Fahrenheit, speed in miles per hour, communicating in another language, loving my American husband dearly and loving to go back to my little house in one-story America, constantly learning new things and dreaming about something.
But somehow every now and then I can’t believe this is happening to me. I think that feeling will never leave me.
