It’s been an age since I wrote last and truth be told, the nib’s rusty and the ink, like the ideas, seems to have dried out.
Its 3 in the morning – a time that’s fast becoming one of my favourite slots of day and night, of late. Not a sound from the street…the one time when even the stragglers aren’t about…those caught up in the mundane are home in bed, the innocent sleep snugly, the responsible because they ought to…
Some lie in bed worrying about what tomorrow may bring and the young believe they will win the world and celebrate their conviction.
And a few like me, sit up to enjoy these hours however they may.
Amidst all this, a baritone voice singing joyously in the quiet of the night makes me somehow think of sunny days and stories written in a small town cafe.
Came across this photograph about the same time and was suddenly reminded of this day in Luxembourg – a bright Wednesday, full of colour, quirkiness and holiday cheer of course. Few things promote camaraderie among fellow humans and a sunny take on life in general, than a holiday mid-week coinciding with great weather …and overflowing pitchers of course.
I remember walking down this street that day – they had propped up umbrellas as a part of the celebrations for the Duke’s birthday – so we were told. Don’t ask me how they tied into it. Doesn’t matter – it was wonderfully quirky.
I remember watching happy minglers go by, remember the tiniest wisp of smoke curling from a cup of tea – green apple I think it was…and most importantly, I remember the feeling of experiencing a moment completely without doing anything so to say.
Small town cafes have a way of providing the right amount of solitude the right way, while letting you flow with the world.
I liked that city.It was small enough to be familiar but not familiar enough to be restricting.
Looks like the night did set the world right.