The Little Museum of Memory

America was my foreground, familiar and known: the crowds, the voices, Captain Kangaroo and Mr Magoo, the great, westbound trains that clattered and tilted past the crossing as my father and I sat waiting in the car on Orchard Road. Behind it, though, for as long as I can remember, was the Old World, its shape and feel and smell, like the pattern of wallpaper coming through the paint.

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