Political musings on a plane

(Originally written January 29th)

From a magazine leaving Ukraine. 

The past week has been a fairly interesting one, politically. Last weekend I was at the Women's March in Vienna and last night, while not there, I was watching live streams of protests at the airports in the USA. I found myself a few times agreeing with people that I don't recognise this America. 

Rather fitting that there is Trump graffiti on the remains of the Berlin Wall. 

Don't get me wrong. I don't believe I have any romantic notions that America was ever that shining city on the hill. We want to be, and I think there were moments where we actually tried. Two major protests in a week because of women's and immigrants rights. The BLM movement. Standing Rock. This must be what being alive in the sixties was like. 

"Show me what democracy looks like!"

I was eating an awful salad at the airport earlier and overheard two Brits talking about the airport protests. 

"That's fucking mental! But it's not like marching is gonna do any good. The Dems. The Conservatives. They're basically the same party, like."

"I don't understand why the fuck they didn't run Sanders. You look at every poll, Donald lost to Sanders but won to Clinton. The moment his campaign started building up, they choose Clinton who lost last time, too." (Well, I know what he meant)

Every county I go to, people like Bernie. How come folks in Austria know more about Bernie than Americans?

I feel a little bad because, of course, American politics cone up frequent with my hosts or people I meet, and they are usually disappointed by the fact I am one of Those Americans that isn't fucking-sheep insane. I mean, conversation where both people agree doesn't move much. 

He's not loved in Iceland. 

So, you have all this political nastiness. I am looking at it from a distant vantage point unwilling to get involved (I am not going to quit my job, cancel my holiday, and be an intern somewhere while donating all my money to the ACLU. I have my scheduled donations and that's about it). This feeling of uselessness combination with--as is always the case when I am wandering--my feeling of complete disconnectedness, that dandelion seed in a meadow of steady grasses, is making me put a little more thought than usual into Home. 

I saw a poem once, I posted it a couple of years ago, that went something like...

//Don't ask me where I'm from

Because by the time I form an answer

It's time to move on.//

"Where you from?" What is this question asking?

Where was I born?  Where does my family live? Where did I learn to swim? Where was the first birthday I can remember? Where did I start my career? Where do I have the largest gatherings of friends, acquaintances? Where do I want to be when I am in my rocking chair years? 

The question of "home" is more serious and complicated for others. 

I know it's an empty question for you, a polite means of establishing a rhythm of conversation. For me it's an ongoing quandary, for even dandelion seeds have to land and try to plant roots somewhere. 

I just find the idea of anywhere increasingly hard to picture.