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Ceramic sellers, Bukhara, Uzbekistan

Each day I walked east through the city, towards the Ark, I would pass rows upon rows of ceramics laid out on the street to sell. In the morning I would see them slowly set up, arranging their dishes and plates to best present their intricate patterns. In the afternoons i would see them gathered together, waiting out the day, waiting for tourists to express interest in their wares.

One morning, a woman stopped me. She had seen me walk back and forth and stopped to ask after me. She asked if I were interested in tablecloths or ceramics. I told her I admired the ceramics, but was afraid to purchase any as I had many days of travel ahead and little no way to ensure that I could transport the brittle plates unharmed. I told her I couldn't see myself buying tablecloths. She eyed me up and down and, satisfied, relaxed her salesmanship and asked after my life.

She asked me if I were married, and I told her no. Girlfriend? I told her I had been seeing someone but we were no longer together. Ah! she exclaimed. That's life. She asked after my age. I told her to guess. She aimed low, then had me guess hers. She told me she was born the year of Independence. I guessed high, way too high, and she chided me for thinking her so old, for not knowing my history. I chided myself for not having finished reading up on it myself.

She asked me again if I would not come to her house to look at linens and tablecloths. I told her maybe. Maybe means no, she said. I apologized. She shrugged and asked where I was going. I pointed to the west, and she rattled off the attractions in the area. I nodded. She told me to hold a moment. She picked up a small teacup and pressed it into my hands. For you, she said, then bid me a good day.

I remembered a similar exchange in Burma, the exchange of pleasantries, the entreaties to purchase wares, and then the gift of a ceramic teacup. At my guest house, I packed the teacup carefully into my bags, first placing it into the pocket of a pair of pants and then rolling it so that the material would buffer it. The day I left for home, I checked it again to make sure it was safe.

That first week back in the states, I did laundry, forgetting to check my pockets. I fished out the broken bits from out of the dryer. Ah, I thought. That's life. I saved the pieces and have kept them scattered about on my shelves.

Friday it was my birthday. I spent the day alone, touring various galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I took an hour on the roof, to look out over the city from the shade of a bamboo installation and to eat a sandwich. That evening, I hosted a dinner for a group of friends I have met at various times during my life in the city. I wondered at our various shared pasts and at how we have grown and matured. At one point, my oldest group of friends retired to a small pool room, and I remembered them as when we first met and played pool. The space of time collapsed, and in my thoughts I was again first arriving in the city, optimistic and scared and excited, while the life I have built—am still building—hummed around me.