When you have lunch with someone you’ve never met before, each of you new to this town, as raw as people who’ve uprooted their lives, you have to talk about what matters most, you can’t hide behind the niceties of the everyday. You have to go to the ground floor of meaning, to examine all of the various strains of human becoming, retrace life decisions, make a play for fate. You have to tread carefully around the wound, give it a salt water bath, sing to it, until you can look at it without smarting, without wishing you were not seeing it. And how the wound requires constant attention, needs dressing, redressing. When you are a foreigner in a foreign land you don’t have to tell anyone, they can see in your homesick eyes, which perpetually search for kindness whilst looking inward toward home.