"In Antigua I am famous. I am bathed in jasmine
and pressed with warm stones."
-Carnival Cruise ad in the New Yorker
In Albuquerque， on the other hand， I am infamous； children
throw stones and the elderly whisper behind their hands.
In Juneau， I am glacial， a cool blue where anyone can bathe
for a price. In Rio I am neither exalted nor defamed； I walk
the streets and nothing makes sense， voices garbled， something
about electricity， something about peonies and cheap wool.
In Prague I am as fabulous as Napoleon and everyone
knows it. They give me a horse and I tell them this horse
will be buried with me， I tell them I will call the horse either
Andromeda or Murphy and all applaud wildly. In Montreal
I am paler than I am in Toronto. In Istanbul I trip over cracks
in the sidewalk and no one rushes to take my elbow， to say
Miss or brew strong tea for a poultice. In Sydney they talk
about my arrival for days. I sit outside the opera house
waiting for miracles， and when none occur in a fortnight
it's Ecuador， where the old gods include the small scythes
of my fingernails in their rituals and I learn that anything
can ferment， given opportunity， given terra cotta. In Paris
I'm up all night. Off the Gold Coast， I marry a reverend
who swears that pelicans are god's birds and numbers them
fervently， meanwhile whistling. Near Bucharest I go all
invisible， also clammy， also way more earnest than I ever was
in Memphis. For three Sundays I wander skinny side streets
saying amphora， amphora.