On a sunny Sunday in August, I sit at William Butler Yeats’s table, writing a few thoughts for the master. On the desk lies many of loose sheets of paper, a pen, a quill, and an inkwell. Light streams in through the green-framed window. I reflect, smile, and look at the red and yellow flowers in a vase. On the sideboard are old books and the poet’s blue teapot.
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We are sitting again on the celadon green chairs on the cobblestone sidewalk. Sunlight filters through the window of the local café, Despensa N.6. For breakfast, gluten-free pancakes with peaches or buckwheat bread with Flamengo cheese. Everything is Lisbon.
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The train arrives for St. Pancras International station. –This is London, your final destination – I hear over the loudspeaker, and I feel a tril. Moments later, we’re traversing the narrow underground corridors. And we’re getting off at Chalk Farm. What a beautiful station building.
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Why do I need leg when I have wings.
-wrote Frida Kahlo in her diary. She got polio as a child. Then she had serious bus accident. And after complications, she did have her right leg amputed below the knee. However, this didn’t stop her to living life to the fullest and becoming the greatest Mexican artist.
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You don’t have to keep up with everything, rush here and there… you can just be, look around until you see.
I get on tram no. 4 and go to Katajanokka Island. The oldest district of Helsinki, where the writer Tove Jansson grew up. When I get off I go up the street, but suddenly I decide to go one more stop. I notice another green vehicle, I run and a boy who is walking on the sidewalk, runs first to catch this tram for me.
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It starts at the Gare Du Midi station, where I get off the spray-painted train and immediately run to buy a clasic waffle with sugar. Trains to Amsterdam, Paris, and London whistle in the background. But I only want to be in Brussels. This is where I came to meet my friend halfway.
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On the following Sunday in February, birds chirp over the city. Although I don’t see them at all because I walk a shortcut through the bus station. People spill out into Eyre Square. And I’m finally wearing a denim jacket, this one lined with fur.
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Turquoise crashes onto the rocks along the R336 road. The passing sun illuminates the moorland full of rocks that stretch out like in a movie. We stop in Carraroe at the purple Bia Blasta cafe that Liza once showed me. I’m trying to remember how to say “Hello” in Gaelic because in this region 80% of the inhabitants use this language every day.
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I turn on the electro jazz of the Svaneborg Kardyb duo and I am getting off the metro again at Enghave Square in Vesterbo district in Copenhagen. People sit on the wooden sidewalk around, at tables in Navnløs Kaffe & Bar, or on benches, curbs, and lawns next to tenement houses. They have coffee from their own thermos or from cafes. Many eat fresh spandeuer from the local Bageried BRØD.
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Puedo escribir los versos a más de 40 grados esta noche Pablo Neruda
When Galway winds blow and the last summer sun shines, I sigh for the city of Hercules – the god of travel. Seville for me is warm yellow mixed with orange peels, blue, and malachite. Brass gates and behind them gardens like from “Tales from the Arabian Nights”. “Red buses and Santa Justa railway station where I get off or get on with flushed face.
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