1. Kronborg Castle, Denmark, March 2022.
This is one of the only rocks that I remember finding. I was living in Latvia, and I traveled to Copenhagen with my friend and colleague, Sarah, who had family there. That morning, her uncle, aunt, and cousin picked us up from our Airbnb in the city. They knew that Sarah was a writer, and maybe they knew they that I was a writer, too, and they got the idea that she would like to see castle that Shakespeare used as inspiration for the castle in Hamlet. My most vivid memory of this day is that drive up along the coast. When they picked us up, they rearranged themselves so that Sarah could take the passenger seat and I could take the right back seat, so that we could both see the water. All I remember is focusing on my breathing, trying not to focus on the eighteen-year-old boy crammed in the middle seat next to me, trying to gather the strength to take my coat off, and trying as hard as I could to not throw up. My second most vivid memory is standing with Sarah in the bathroom of the castle, her saying, there’s almost nothing here about Hamlet. My third most vivid memory is standing on the beach next to the castle, the water a deep contemplative blue, the five of us silently looking combing through the rocks. Sarah’s father pointed out a few stones made from eroded brick and then pointed to the castle, also made of brick. “You could take one of these,” he said. “That’s a souvenir you can’t buy in the gift shop.”
2. Nerja, Spain, March 2022.
I’m almost certain I’m right about this one. I’d spent a week visiting M. in Madrid and then we rented a car to drive south and spend a weekend at the beach. When I visited Madrid the month before, I’d felt revived by the sun after living through a long, gloomy, northern winter. But this week, wind storms from the Sahara desert had blown dust (sand?) all the way to Spain, and the streets and skies of Madrid were brown with dust. M. had called in sick one day at work, citing her asthma, so we could go to the Royal Palace. South in Nerja, the skies were cloudy and thunderstorms were forming. I think these pieces of sea glass come from this trip because I remember M. telling me that her mom collected it.
I had to look through old photos to remind myself of what happen on this trip. In every photo I am smiling, or I’ve pushed my cheek against M.’s, her red hair curling on my face. In one video I try to take a sip of red wine without making a face, and when I can’t I laugh, and I can hear M.’s laughter too, off camera. My hair is long and it parts on the side. For the whole week I wear M.’s clothes. In several of these photos, M. is sorting through rocks on the beach, wearing my backpack, and no matter how much I zoom in, I can’t see what rock she is holding. Now, I look through my collection and find a red stone that looks like it could have come from this beach, but I’m not sure. In one photo, which my phone tells me was sent from M., I am holding a smooth gray stone in my palm, an enormous, almost devilish grin on my face, triumphant at my find. I don’t recognize this rock. It isn’t in my collection.
3. Riga, Latvia, 2021-2022
These are the stones and shells that I imagine I picked up while I lived in Riga, but I’m not sure. Something about Riga that took me a long time to understand is that it is close to the sea, but it is not on the sea. Of course I understood this in a literal sense; I had taken the train out to the beach; my colleague often talked about her commute from her beachside suburb; I’d gone down to the river and saw the distant pier and knew we were connected to something larger. But the closeness was a gradual realization. I looked down and saw that the sidewalk was filled with waddling seagulls. I swept the floor of my apartment and realized that my boots had been tracking in sand. I think these ones are from the beach, but I’m not sure.
4. Tucson, Arizona, USA, March 2024.
A gift from G., several weeks after we started seeing each other. They said it was called a “TV rock” because if you place it on an image you can see the image clearly, as if it’s on TV. They explained the optical sciences behind it because I don’t remember the details. They had presented this gift with a note written on the back of a movie ticket from the first time we hung out. At some point right before we parted I was turning the rock over in my fingers and it broke. I still think it’s pretty cool.
5. Amsterdam, Netherlands, January 2025
I’m lying about the date and the location, but I’ll tell the story anyway. I was at a conference on international diplomacy, paid for the US government, at least indirectly. This part is somehow true. I was surrounded by well-dressed, high-achieving young people—half Americans, half Europeans—and although I was mostly quiet in the seminars I came alive at night. Large groups of us wandered the streets in the evenings, and the Europeans who had visited previously told us which bars to go to. N. was wearing a red velvet corduroy jacket. I remember saying it was nice that there was another queer woman here, and she linked her arm around mine, and we walked like that for a while. She was taller than me. She told me the story of how she grew up in Brazil but moved abroad thanks to her Portuguese passport. She encouraged me—also raised across the ocean, almost holding a European passport—to do the same. She showed me a photo of what she looked like back in Brazil, how different she had been, and explained how her life was so much better now. I thought she looked pretty even then. We went into a bodega and N. told me to buy Delirium Tremens, a blue and purple bottle with an elephant on it. She said it would have me seeing elephants. Perhaps this is where you realize that this story takes place in Belgium. All of this so far has otherwise been true. I can’t say the things I wish had been true.
6. Tucson, Arizona, USA, February 2025
My gem show haul, minus the bismuth because it is special to me, and also breakable. Self explanatory.
