feeling: still food poisoned
at leonardo da vinci airport, i stir packages of brown sugar into cappuccino depths, noticing how granules dust the surface then suddenly disappear. it is just after 6 am and a blackbird flutters trapped in the rafters. in the night, the building fills with the solitary, the waiting. they are bundled up in jackets & sleeping on windowsills, but i arrive from warm places and cover my body a patchwork of unsubstantial scarves. when i finish the ishiguro novel, borrowed from harriet's rooftop bookshelves, it becomes a pillow.
the rer is directed & misdirected by an out-of-the-blue metro strike. 'vraiment, j'ai un peu honte,' confesses a jovial frenchman, home-ward bound. i assure him my city runs parallel to such traveling trickeries. then he takes my hand (his is pale, dry, painted with age), suddenly grave. 'bonne chance, 'demoiselle, bonne chance.'
i accidentally follow the domestic arrival signs and end up in the wrong terminal. i wander in from the italian evening, walking as you would to meet me here. i do not clear customs. leading a troupe of officials & baggage handlers round the carousels, we are looking for my suitcase. the belts are quiet, the terminal empty except for a few rectangle reliquaries and the echo-y small-talk of airport uniforms.
we find my bag with the abandoned luggage and i clatter away, toward the dark halls of anonymous sleepers. grazie. bonna serra. i hear my allies calling in novel english voices, 'bie byee! byeee!' and when i turn to wave goodbye, they are busy blowing kisses.
the rer is directed & misdirected by an out-of-the-blue metro strike. 'vraiment, j'ai un peu honte,' confesses a jovial frenchman, home-ward bound. i assure him my city runs parallel to such traveling trickeries. then he takes my hand (his is pale, dry, painted with age), suddenly grave. 'bonne chance, 'demoiselle, bonne chance.'
i accidentally follow the domestic arrival signs and end up in the wrong terminal. i wander in from the italian evening, walking as you would to meet me here. i do not clear customs. leading a troupe of officials & baggage handlers round the carousels, we are looking for my suitcase. the belts are quiet, the terminal empty except for a few rectangle reliquaries and the echo-y small-talk of airport uniforms.
we find my bag with the abandoned luggage and i clatter away, toward the dark halls of anonymous sleepers. grazie. bonna serra. i hear my allies calling in novel english voices, 'bie byee! byeee!' and when i turn to wave goodbye, they are busy blowing kisses.
1 comment:
what lovely picture-postcard captures, you have there! i haven't had a moment to put any of my pictures or ramblings up, but when i do, there will be a pile-up. right now i am in the little port-village of lymington on the south shore of england. my parents & i took the ferry to the isle of wight for a drive round the island & an afternoon cream tea, voted the second best in all of england and recommended by british vogue.
did you like the book? also, i only just got rid of the last dregs of my poinsoned intestines the day before yesterday. i hope you are better now!
i think about our marvelous moroccan meanderings often, especially when drinking rose & badiane tea.
xx
Post a Comment