Dirt doesn’t reflect light

We go on these crazy late night walks around our harmless, provincial little town. While there’s minimal activity or disruption so late, you might witness drunk townies weaving their bicycles down the sidewalk. The best encounter is with the toads, which emerge after sundown to enjoy the cool spring condensation, usually showing up anytime past 10pm. The males, smaller than their female counterparts, ride on their ladies’ backs, making otherwise average-sized amphibians look mutant in the moonlight. The ladies do not hop so much as walk deliberately down the sidewalk, slow to keep their balance, usually in a disjointed line, staying close to the garden walls, occasionally crossing the street as we hold our breath. I’ve been ready to run in front of a car to save a brave pair (or perhaps only she is courageous, for he has no say if he wants to get anywhere at all). Sometimes, there is evidence that they didn’t make it.

That is more upsetting than the inebriated locals because the drunk kids on two wheels still have a chance.

**

We went with a good friend to tourist-watch at The Little Mermaid. “It’s Denmark’s Lincoln Memorial,” Andreas commented as we watched an enormous family pose in various configurations in front of the small statue. The father figure filmed the whole thing, from the ceremonial hauling of the elderly matriarch down the rocks to the continued reassembly of young boys who all gave each other floppy bunny ears.

There are so few people around whom we are so comfortable. We miss our stateside friends, the community of couples that was our go-to crowd. Here, we’re more selective, though I thought things would work the opposite way. Sort of like a kid on the first day of school, I was under the impression you couldn’t be picky about making new friends. Maybe having each other makes it seem less vital to make any random acquaintance. Instead, a new location seems to mean we can more easily distill our circle.

Expats tend to engage in communities of misinformation, yet everything we experience is a complicated reality. We share stories about our experiences and relay odd facts we’ve learned about our new homes, never knowing how much faith to put in anything we say. “Why are there so many Turks here?” “Bad economy for them in the ’70s, and Denmark was the opposite. The economy here was so good, they couldn’t find anyone to do the service jobs. And then the Turks stayed.”

In my limited experience, the main perk of expat communities is the openness we (mostly) bring. Much as we can choose to be picky about our friendships if we want, there’s also an existential connection that is more easily fostered when everyone is having the same life transitions. What would otherwise be major barriers to a friendship are thrown aside if you have a few crucial experiences in common.

**

Have you ever had the bizarre luck to be reading the years-old work of a writer and editor you respect, an entry in an indispensable anthology, only to have her email you at exactly the same time and offer you publication? I could only be so lucky so many times in this short life.

You think magazines are disposable media. I think—have always thought—that they are the future.

So is public art, which is why you should consider whether anyone in your life is lostmissing and put up posters accordingly. Here is one to get me started. Soon, the streets will be filled with my grief. Anything to shake up the natives.