Bruno is dead
For weeks, environmentalists, the press, the home where he was raised in Italy speculated, hypothesized and searched for the missing “rampaging” Bruno. Germany hadn’t seen a bear in its realms since 1835. Some farmers got upset over their losses in poultry and sheep. Others claimed that he had scratched their cars. Germans consider their cars shrines, so that was no less than sacrilege.
Recently, a Finnish team was after its tracks. This weekend, the Bavarian government authorized hunters to shoot the bear on sight. When the order was signed (the German government doesn’t work on Sundays), the bear was already dead…
I must admit when I heard the news this morning on the radio, I had to weep for the death of hope for brown bears in a world where we have made all species, including our own, foreign and unworthy.
My second year
Today, two years ago, in 2003, I arrived to what would become my home for a still undeterminate length of time, perhaps several years, perhaps till the end.
Today, almost two years after my wedding, and almost half a year since the other wedding, the prospect of children is more and more certain. Perhaps one day they will read these postings and wonder even more who their father is, or was, or will be.
The longer I spend here, the longer I realize that, finally, I found home, that a long life of nomadism has finally ended. I have never spent more than seven years in the same place. If five more years go by and I’m still here, the record will have been broken. We shall see.
Traveling
On this same date already two years ago, I left my country and came to live in Germany. Within this period, I have visited more countries than I had ever before. I’ve already been to Slovenia, Russia, Italy, and drove through Austria. My brother should arrive in the following weeks to Europe and he’ll be living in Holland, so I might wind up there soon.
Before coming to Germany, I had already lived in the US and the Dominican Republic, but had briefly landed in Panama, Venezuela, and Puerto Rico.
The gist is where my roots are. I’ve never lived in the same place for over seven years, and that was only twice (Bogota and Barranquilla in Colombia). For years, I geared everything towards a married, family life. And I have finally succeeded, to some extent.
A few years ago, while in the DR, shortly after I had met my wife, I was riding in a colleague’s car and the tape player was booming Jenn August’s “Home.” That’s when I realized it didn’t matter where I lived, ’cause I had found my home…
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