It's the nicest day so far this year. 4º C. Yes, 39º F. It never felt this good.
I walked to class, walked home from class; it took me the same time as the métro would. Silly métro.
I saw the back of the St. Laurent stores hidden underneath layers of graffiti tags. I passed David's apartment, under which there's a hostel. One day an American man asked me if it was a hostel. Apparently it was, because I didn't know and then the door opened and the woman inside said that he was in the right place, and I remembered that. The pebuhls on the street made crunching noises under my flat chaussures de ville, and they always do.
It was the best day because I could; for the first time in a long time. Of course, eventually it will get routine. Not aujourd'hui, though, so I will be happy in the meantime.
My heavy backpack made me sore, having to wear it for so long. I missed the sore. I want to run again. Run the mornings, run the days. Run until snow falls again.
a) I miss running too. I miss being sore. I miss the way sweat and sunlight scorched my skin. And I miss doing something that I wasn't good at naturally but worked my way up from absolute bottom to sky-high top.
ReplyDeleteb) I follow your blog now : )