Within a few days, the music is in your head. You don’t know how to describe it—it’s fresh, a brand-new sound, but also familiar, as though you’ve been here before, maybe in another life. The sound makes you move differently, or think you could.
This strange symphony is created by an orchestra of people, the trees, bodies of water, new streets, chaotic or orderly, hills and houses, salt flats or sand plains. Dotted here and there are plastic bags—for it’s messy, like any human place. Yet, somehow, you’ve awakened fully to see, hear, smell, touch, and feel every moment. You begin to relearn something you’ve forgotten. This symphony makes you feel more alive.
By the end of the first week, or the second—there is a secret schedule for each of us—the music claims you.
But you don’t know that yet. You probably still believe you’re in control, making the decisions. So you decide to learn just a few words of the language. A sentence or two. Greetings, for example. That’s how people say . Isn’t it wonderful? Strangers are worried about whether you’ve eaten or not. And they feed you. Sometimes, when people say or , what they actually say means You consider extending your stay. For the rest of your life.
