Today I want to sit on the limestone steps in the village of Trebinja. I want to pick seeded grapes from the vines overhead & sink my teeth into dozens of fresh figs. I want to mix my wine with mineral water as I watch the toothless grins of the village people light up their faces. I want to drink warm milk with the cream still on top, be excited to partake in the consumption of the strangely potent and homemade alcoholic beverage flowing from the used coke bottles, & eat dried meat hanging from the ceramic rooftops.
I want the only word I understand to be “bravo.”
I want to see children playing with cigarette boxes and beer caps. To hear crisp linens flapping from their lines in the hot summer breeze. I want to watch hunched-over widows walking their cows down the dirt roads. To hear deep voices sing as the men of the village gather after supper to linđo, pounding their paul-bunyan-sized fists on their milk crates & embracing one another as brothers. I want to be urged to “eat more!,” be forced to dance, to be laughed at because I’m the American girl, & to be told I could pass for one of them.