I miss the canals with their drudge and their grime and the bistros nearby that somehow make that all acceptable. As I sit here listening to Corelli, I miss meeting friends and talking for hours into the night, at any location, anytime. I miss drinking wine in public. I miss seeing fountains every few hundred yards. I miss cathedral skylines and mosaic ceilings that seem to seep and flow into your veins through your eyes.
I love where I am, but I miss Europe. I miss looking out over the rooftops of my townhouse, steaming cup of coffee in hand, tar steaming from roofs in the morning light below. I even miss my steep, slippery stairs.
I miss the open market with North Sea fish and biking along the canals. I miss ceramic cups in coffeehouses. I miss the blinding sparkle of rivers next to the blinding sparkle of cathedral domes. I don’t miss the cold, where I was at, at least.
I miss the guy who always had a special accordion tune for me. I miss specifically going through that stop just so I could hear accordion being played in the Metro. (I know, I am a silly American).
I miss the truck, truck truck sounds of trains taking me everywhere I needed to go–and I even miss rushing to meet those great lumps of steel in order to miss a strike that was announced a few hours later. I don’t miss the people I saw rudely push a blind man off a train one (apparently he wasn’t moving fast enough). Neither do I miss is when the Metro smelled like very old vintages of puke and piss.
I miss parks you can walk for hours in, promenades now available to the public. I miss real cheese that melts as it hits your tongue. I miss the grog and the company it came with. I miss pressing mulled wine to my lips while live opera takes place in the Christmas market.
But I miss living there. A visit won’t suffice. Someday, again, maybe.