We reach Dublin Northside, and the rain stops. Magic sun peeks out from behind the cloud. Because our first stop is the Cloud Café. We sit on the veranda and gaze out at North Strand Road. Pleasant songs play in the background, and the city buzzes. A green double-decker bus floats over a stone bridge.
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October started quickly. I don’t know where it is rushing. So I try to capture this last week. I listen to the dripping rain, watch the flickering candle flame. I grind coffee beans, warmth brown like chestnuts. I am looking a fox in the garden. At the Galway market, I eat homemade sushi in the fleeting sunshine. Meanwhile a poem I write about November.
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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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