There is an otherworldliness in greeting the New Year in an ancient, foreign city. The worn buildings and murky waters of the canals are juxtaposed with McDonalds, Chanel, and Dior — monuments to modern capitalism.
With so much attention paid to where we’ve come from — our familial and societal “roots” — I cant help but wonder where we are headed.
I’m in the land of Machiavelli and Mussolini, horrified by the neo-fascism of Trump and Bannon, and yet I write this in a gilded and glittering old palace-turned-hotel. The irony does not escape me.
How to move forward while I myself am so fascinated by (indeed often fixated upon) the burnished glow of the sepia-toned, oil-stroked past…
Where is the line between being mindfully rooted or being stuck as if on flypaper?