Rebeca discovers America! − 1 October, 1999
I first discovered Houston. The natives spoke a language that seemed quite strange to me, so I decided to leave immediately and go into the nearest airplane which took me to the O'Hare airport in Chicago. The people here also spoke a strange language, but I dismissed it because it's not fun to be in airplanes for several hours unless you are the pilot (in which case, you can always wake yourself up by turning the plane upside down).
When I arrived, it was getting dark, but the lights of the city defeated the darkness. I couldn't really see the city, but I could outline it with my mind. - I'm sure a psychologist would be impressed by my cognitive capacity. - My first impression of Chicago was a collection of numerous, colorful dots of lights, which was nice, because it was something I could easily recall after an acid trip.
At the airport, a stranger was waiting for us. This stranger was going to take us to a place in which my mother and my little sister were waiting for us. I wondered how they had managed to land in such a strange place, and I hoped they hadn't mutated into science fiction creatures.
(No. Those things weren't in my mind.)
We were moving west from Chicago, leaving the lights behind and entering deeper into the darkness of the night. Somehow I hadn't arrived yet. My mind had divided itself: it had stayed in that last morning in South America, in the voices at the airport, and in the airplane that served cold, tasteless sandwiches. I didn't understand the sudden change. I heard something in the distance. It was my own voice. It was whispering, "What happened?"
It was screaming.
"Where am I?"
When I arrived, it was getting dark, but the lights of the city defeated the darkness. I couldn't really see the city, but I could outline it with my mind. - I'm sure a psychologist would be impressed by my cognitive capacity. - My first impression of Chicago was a collection of numerous, colorful dots of lights, which was nice, because it was something I could easily recall after an acid trip.
At the airport, a stranger was waiting for us. This stranger was going to take us to a place in which my mother and my little sister were waiting for us. I wondered how they had managed to land in such a strange place, and I hoped they hadn't mutated into science fiction creatures.
(No. Those things weren't in my mind.)
We were moving west from Chicago, leaving the lights behind and entering deeper into the darkness of the night. Somehow I hadn't arrived yet. My mind had divided itself: it had stayed in that last morning in South America, in the voices at the airport, and in the airplane that served cold, tasteless sandwiches. I didn't understand the sudden change. I heard something in the distance. It was my own voice. It was whispering, "What happened?"
It was screaming.
"Where am I?"
