Sunday Morning in August
It is colder in the mornings now. I have to put on a linen shirt to sit outside on the balcony as I drink my morning coffee and read. It’s Sunday and the neighbourhood is just waking up. It’s the church bells that serve as our collective wake-up call. First the big ones of the protestant church, then the small bell of the orthodox church across the street. The latter is rung by a man who climbs up the small steeple every Sunday morning wearing red earmuffs against the noise he is about to create. Today, someone claps after he is done. Then from another corner, someone plays a pop song very loud through what sounds like cheap speakers. Maybe they believe it to be some sort of revenge for the rude awakening. I doubt that the man with the earmuffs will hear it, nor will the churchgoers whose singing we hear through the building's windows.
Slowly, other voices and sounds appear through the open windows; laughter and giggles, snippets of conversations, a jawn, a sneeze, and the creaking of blinds being opened. I enjoy witnessing how the world wakes up around me. Today it reminds me of the morning swims that I like to go for when we stay at the Roches Rouges. Those calm moments, when I would glide through the cool water of the rock pool on my back, to the sight of balcony doors opening and sleepy faces with ruffled hair stepping towards the balustrades to look out onto the blue sea.
I am reading “To the River” by Olivia Laing. I picked the book up from the free books bin at the office to take with me to the lake for my lunch break. It’s the translated version and I wish I was reading it in English. The German translation is done quite well I believe. Yet, I would love to read Laing’s original choice of words, also to learn from her formulations, and grow my own writing skills. In the book, she recounts a several-day-long walk along the River Ouse. She follows its course from its very source until it meets the sea. While recounting her walk, she intertwines the history of the river with her own life and what she experiences during the walk. Between many literary and historical references, she captures the atmosphere and the moments as she witnesses them happening around her. It’s those that I am most interested in, as it is something that I aim to do myself when I write these little notes.
By now the noises in my neighbourhood have grown louder, and more distracting. The inhabitants of the shared flat have gathered for breakfast on their balcony, talking about their shenanigans from last night. Also, D has just woken up. I can hear him plumping up the pillows in the bedroom. Time to prepare a late breakfast for ourselves and to properly start this summer Sunday.
