All I have are notes now. Notes within notes, notes pointing me to another notes, notes reminding me to note something down.
I currently don’t have an American cell phone (I plan to get one when I finally settle at an address here at the end of the month) and so have had to rely on these pages stained with my barely intelligible writing. Addresses to places I no longer remember, phones numbers — some labeled, others dangling mysteriously — and directions, so many sets of directions. I probably wouldn’t have done this in hindsight: in the age of e-mail-enabled cell phones, everyone is always running late, counting on the fact that they can text you at the last minute to say they are 15 minutes away.
So I sit, I read, people-watch, find ways to occupy my time as I wait for a friend. I stop in coffee shops and ask waiters if I can use a phone, and they kindly let me. I walk around mostly not knowing how much time has lapsed unless I can catch a glimpse of the hour on someone’s iPhone. But I think I’ll miss this sense of feeling unmoored, unreachable and almost free. I’m only responsible for my notes, these loose-leaf stacks of yellow Post-it’s and white lined notebook sheets that crowd my purse more and more each day.