the embassy b&b

THIRD DAY FREE of the social media soul abyss. Last night, I even read a book. It was called The Head in Edward Nugent’s Hand, and it was about the failed English attempts at colonization at Roanoke in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, about two decades before Jamestown. Two facts surprised me. One was that Drake’s fleet landed 300 Central American indigenous women and 200 Africans and Turks in the Outer Banks and sailed away, allowing them to fend for themselves. Perhaps they were massacred by the indigenous Algonquians, but this I seriously doubt, because they were already weakened by intertribal conflict, conflict with the English, and disease. More likely they were assimilated into other tribes. The second was that when John White returned to the Americas, the ships landed at Tiburon in Haiti and encountered skeletons strewn on the beach, perhaps jettisoned sailors from some wreck or other mission. One can imagine that ghost wind blowing, licking the bones of the dead with sand. It makes me wonder how often sailors washed up on American beaches in this forgotten time. At night I dreamt I was inside the Russian Embassy, presumably in Tallinn. Like Russia itself, I needed a visa to enter the embassy, and my visa had a three-hour time window for me to get everything accomplished inside. The inside of the embassy was rather like a comfortable bed and breakfast, with carpeted staircases and an old-fashioned, white wooden desk for the concierge. There was an outdoor water park too, and I went for a dip in the sun with two of my children. The third, the eldest, was nowhere to be seen. When I asked what had become of this teenage girl, the concierge at the embassy B&B alerted me that she was last seen getting into Putin’s black car wearing an orange dress. I did not like the idea of Putin alone with the girl. There I waited, anxious for their return.

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