excerpt
The group visited a cultural village. They were greeted by locals
wearing heritage garb and playing traditional instruments. Theirs
was not the only vacationing group in attendance. Her travel companions
tallied the number of languages overheard in the gift shop.
Harold was hungover, Winnie exhausted. She felt the ground
rotate beneath her feet. That morning they took turns using the bathroom.
– Are you feeling all right? Karen asked her. They’d been ushered
into an uncovered grandstand and left to dehydrate.
– I know it can be a little overwhelming the first time.
– Better keep an eye on Harold, Winnie said. His ancestors were
Norwegian.
A translation was read aloud about the importance of the dance.
All Winnie remembered of it, she told the gals back home, was that
the jig had been enacted for thousands of years. The steps told a
story. Through a slit in the curtains she could see the performers
extinguishing cigarettes and changing out of their western clothes.
It surprised her to learn that in this troubled land much was made
of longevity. Repetition seemed sacrosanct; the past, one’s forefathers,
were worshipped like deities. As the dancers stomped across
the stage she considered how different it was from the true north
strong and free, where there was a 12-step program for every misfortune,
where one was encouraged to forget, to move on, let go. To
erase people and things as though they’d never existed.
And stitch quilts.
Their last night she decided to say something. She’d promised herself
she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t help herself. Days she neglected
to take her prescription, Winnie was quick to boil.
– I thought, she said to Harold, we’d do something together.
We’re going home tomorrow.
He sulked through dinner and complained afterwards of heartburn.
It disappeared when Phil came by.
She decided not to wait up or visit Donna’s room, where some of
the others would be comparing what they believed were bargains…
Manolis Aligizakis 