Lots of the Same Things

Driving down to the bay, we pass through acres of rhodedendron farms. The lavender blossoms cover the California hills. My aunt explains that this area is renowned for its rhodies.

Our boat sinks just as we reach the hotel. The musical is just getting over, the audience is filtering out, waved through the doors by sparkly, lavender, anorexic ballerinas.

We browse nonchalantly through a bunch of CD racks in the video store, while our agents prepare themselves in the back room. I stick my head through the door to see how the debriefing is going. My mother watches the front door for suspicious-looking people.


My family, refugees from a war-torn metropolitan life, arrive at a camp in an icy plain. We sit down to eat our first full meal in months, but finding the food not to my taste, I leave the table to explore. I meet with an old gypsy woman and she gives me some sort of voodoo talisman to avoid my impending arranged marriage.

The magic takes on a life of its own and ruins everything.