Photo by Lex Molenaar via Aberrantbeauty.com
Category: Life
Running. In Warsaw.
The hotel lobby. (~2006)
High cathedral ceilings. Dark wood grain walls. Turkish Rugs that run and run.
There’s a whiff of lemon in the air, the wood floors scrubbed by the overnight crew.
The Bellman, adorned with a red cap, offers a “God Morning” in broken English, and quickly drops his head back to his book.
A step back in time.
There’s no mistaking Warsaw (Poland, not Indiana) for the youth and flamboyance of Barcelona or the hushed old money wealth of Geneva or the modern efficiency and hum of Tokyo.
Warsaw is the Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. Long past his prime and wearing deep scars of bone jarring defeat. Tired, hurt and a heaviness that lingers.
It was a slow run 9 years ago.
An early Sunday morning in autumn.
A single 40-minute run cutting deep furrows which are turned over and over again. Continue reading “Running. In Warsaw.”
A good trade.
In mid-November I flew to Madrid. […] In Cartagena we made a pit stop at a restaurant called Juanita. […] I was sitting at the bar, having lukewarm coffee and a bowl of marinated beans warmed in possibly the first microwave ever made, when I realized some guy had sidled up to me.
He opened a well-worn oxblood wallet to reveal a solitary lottery ticket with the number 46172. I didn’t get the feeling it was a winning number, but in the end I paid six euros for it, which was a lot for a lottery ticket. Then he sat down next to me, ordered a beer and a plate of cold meatballs, and paid for them with my euros. We ate together in silence. Then he got up, looked me straight in the face, and grinned, saying buena suerte. I smiled back and wished him luck as well.
It occurred to me that my ticket may be worthless, but I didn’t care. I was willingly drawn into the whole scene, like a random character in a B. Traven novel. Lucky or not, I went along with the part I was targeted to play: the pigeon who gets off a bus at a pit stop on the road to Cartagena, hit on to invest in a suspiciously limp lottery ticket. The way I look at it is that fate touches me and some rumpled straggler has a repast of meatballs and warm beer. He is happy, I feel at one with the world— a good trade.
~ Patti Smith, ‘Her Name was Sandy’ from the M Train
Notes:
- Photo: Medplaya
- Related Patti Smith Post: I believe in movement. I believe in that lighthearted balloon, the world.
And, Autumn. And, Saturday Mornings. WORD.
[…]
Rumi said,
There is no proof of the soul.
But isn’t the return of spring
and how it springs up in our hearts
a pretty good hint?
[…]
~ Mary Oliver, Whistling Swans. Felicity: Poems
- Find full poem here: Whistling Swans by Mary Oliver
- Find Mary Oliver’s new book: Felicity: Poems
- Photo Source: Crisp Air
Flying. Gate C-12. Nashville.
2:15 pm flight.
Nashville, TN to LGA.
Gate C-12. This would not be mistaken for Gate 4 in Albuquerque, a share with over 500,000 views. No Sir. No such Magic.
Day 4 of a grueling road trip.
A thin cushioned seat at the Gate.
Followed by an announcement that the flight would be delayed 80 minutes.
It’s a wonderful life!
I walk.
Country girls with their long hair, tall boots, and skinny blue jeans.
A live performer strums his guitar, his love lost, his heart break. Patrons sit at the bar watching CNN and nurse their microbrews.
The intoxicating pull of a Quiznos Swiss Turkey Club, Hot fries from Burger King and Tall Caramel Macchiato from Starbucks – “Freshly steamed milk with vanilla-flavored syrup is marked with espresso and topped with caramel drizzle for an oh-so-sweet finish.”
But I resist. I walk away from all of this.
And I walk.
Continue reading “Flying. Gate C-12. Nashville.”