And yet, it isn’t raining. Not as I speak. Not inside, anyway.
Instead, the roofs are all covered with a soft layer of fresh snow. The sky adopted a gloomy, reddish grey texture, the texture of winter nights.
I have been in London for merely three weeks, and I’m still struggling to figure out how to turn this new adventure into a new and interesting/entertaining iteration of this blog. I’m only beginning to find my marks here as I pass daily by all the local hyper-places: Waterloo, London Bridge, Piccadilly Circus, Brick Lane.
Deeper thoughts and stories will come in due time, but for the moment, I will simply quote Georges Baumgartner, the famous Swiss correspondent in Tokyo, whom I’m going to have to translate to maintain the linguistic coherence of this post, since I arbitrarily started writing it in English (later posts might come out in other languages, though I will try to spare you of Swedish tribulations). In closing of a very interesting week of reports “Un dromadaire sur l’épaule” did about Japan, he said:
[…] in Switzerland, there are people who are very well adapted to live in Switzerland, like in Porrentruy, where I’m from. For instance I knew someone who lived in Porrentruy and who told me that going to Delémont, passing the Col des Rangiers, was already like passing a frontier and it seemed very far to him.
And there are other people who might not fit in their own country and who need to find a place in the world where they can put up with themselves.
I don’t repudiate where I’m from. I’m in transit. We’re in transit. We’re all in transit.