And I hate it. I hate that I haven’t seen you, yet I like you a lot. I hate how you can make this possible, Europe, because it will be like this. It will forever be like this. I will never set foot in your land, because I will always want to hate you.
You will never make me happy. If I live in one of your beautiful cities, I will do nothing but stare at your streets everyday. I will always look at your women, and how beautiful they are compared to me. I will always look back and think of the Philippines. I will always think of my home, and how natural it is to understand their language, or how familiar the oceans are, that they will never be new to me. And then it will make me sad. Because my home is routine. Because my home is predictable. Because there is nothing to explore. Because my home is me.
But Europe, you will never make me happy, and I will always think about home.
You will shower me with the images of the paintings in the Louvre, with songs from an Irish man, with brick roads, a snowy Ukraine, suits and ties and sharp noses. I will tell you now — Europe is not me. I would love to, but it is not me. I can never afford to be with you, Europe. You will serve me good food, and you will tell me, “My dear, you like simple food, don’t you?”
I will never learn how to hold a wine glass and drink it with your people. You will be surprised that I can down half a case of beer, or any drink with no sophistication, for that matter. I would love to make love with you, Europe, but you are too beautiful. I want you like this in my memory. I want you just like this. I want you to be the place I will forever hate, and can never have. I want to crave your beauty, and hate you because you are too beautiful.
You are too beautiful, Europe.
