I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist. I paced from one side of the room to the other, dreaming out loud incoherent and impossible things—deeds I’d forgotten to do, hopeless ambitions haphazardly realized, fluid and lively conversations which, were they to be, would already have been. And in this reverie without grandeur or calm, in this hopeless and endless dallying, I paced away my morning, and my words…
Reading The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. Taking my time, skipping around some, savoring every word. Just read the passage above. Which seemed apropos.
It’s cold and wet and dark. We’re up and moving. Bags are packed. Not much time left, nothing much left to do but wait. Still raining. I put a bath towel under the leaking window. What you can’t see all that well through the rain-streaked pane: the famous Tivoli Gardens.
‘Tis the season for Christmas markets. Tivoli’s opens for the season right around the time we will be boarding our flight back home. The website boasted of a thousand decorated Christmas trees. “A magical, sparkling Christmas atmosphere is guaranteed.” Too bad. Maybe next year.