I try not to indulge feelings of homesickness too much, but as the days lengthen (northern sun pouring in my window at 6) and my time here lengthens, I find myself more than usually missing New York. Or perhaps it's just the cumulative missing of things that's catching up with me. But as weekend festivals open up here, I miss being in a city where I have people to go to such things with. Here, brass bands are present (hooray) but marginalized by globalization in the form of American pop. I miss the street festivals with Sicilian and Calabrian standards mixing with jitterbug, and people dancing to them, or sitting back and chatting with their neighbors; the festivals with salsa and bachata and merengue pulsing joyously from enormous speakers. I love Bischofsheim's vegetable stand, but I miss the Arthur Avenue Covered Market, where I get to stop for a chat with Mr. Liberatore, the florist, and where the most gregarious of the Boiano brothers, who run the largest fruit-and-veg stall, showed me his knack for sautéing artichokes.
I miss my cooking ingredients: sriracha sauce sold cheaply in enormous bottles; lumps of parmesan stacked generously in the grocery store aisles. I miss my takeaway-restaurant comfort foods: spicy rice and stewed oxtail or goat meat with melt-in-your-mouth beans, or perfectly blended guacamole with fine-chopped jalapeño and fresh lime juice. I miss my favorite Indian bistro on 9th Avenue, and my favorite usher at the Met. I miss--oh, irony!--having cinemas where European art films get multiple screenings a day, and runs that last more than a week. (Frankfurt would be a different case, but in Mainz, cinemas are dominated by… American blockbusters. Dubbed, natürlich.) I miss the bodegas where I could easily purchase a bottle of water on a hot day, or a few envelopes handed to me in a paper bag, or, well, anything after 9 p.m. (sometimes summer nights call for emergency ice cream.) I miss thrift stores and secondhand bookstores being a commonplace, and I miss my museum memberships. I miss having a living space that is mine, and having people over for tea and for dinner parties and for just-because chats after long days of teaching.
I'm grateful for the routines I have managed to establish here, and for such connections as I have made. Every time I cycle over a bridge across the Rhine, I am overwhelmed by a sense of my incredible luck in living in such a beautiful place. I love being deafened by the cathedral bells of Mainz, and buying strawberries and asparagus and rhubarb that have been grown in the fields behind the village where I live. I love that intelligent, politically and socially conscious opera stagings are the norm here (after the Rhine, those are high on the list of things I'll miss. Very high.) But I miss my city. And, most of all--while I'm grateful for visits and letters and e-mails--I miss being close to most of those with whom I have close personal ties.
I miss my cooking ingredients: sriracha sauce sold cheaply in enormous bottles; lumps of parmesan stacked generously in the grocery store aisles. I miss my takeaway-restaurant comfort foods: spicy rice and stewed oxtail or goat meat with melt-in-your-mouth beans, or perfectly blended guacamole with fine-chopped jalapeño and fresh lime juice. I miss my favorite Indian bistro on 9th Avenue, and my favorite usher at the Met. I miss--oh, irony!--having cinemas where European art films get multiple screenings a day, and runs that last more than a week. (Frankfurt would be a different case, but in Mainz, cinemas are dominated by… American blockbusters. Dubbed, natürlich.) I miss the bodegas where I could easily purchase a bottle of water on a hot day, or a few envelopes handed to me in a paper bag, or, well, anything after 9 p.m. (sometimes summer nights call for emergency ice cream.) I miss thrift stores and secondhand bookstores being a commonplace, and I miss my museum memberships. I miss having a living space that is mine, and having people over for tea and for dinner parties and for just-because chats after long days of teaching.
I'm grateful for the routines I have managed to establish here, and for such connections as I have made. Every time I cycle over a bridge across the Rhine, I am overwhelmed by a sense of my incredible luck in living in such a beautiful place. I love being deafened by the cathedral bells of Mainz, and buying strawberries and asparagus and rhubarb that have been grown in the fields behind the village where I live. I love that intelligent, politically and socially conscious opera stagings are the norm here (after the Rhine, those are high on the list of things I'll miss. Very high.) But I miss my city. And, most of all--while I'm grateful for visits and letters and e-mails--I miss being close to most of those with whom I have close personal ties.
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