water

You try out writing in the second person

Back at the Ved Amagerport apartment, I make myself a bedtime shandy of Ribena and Carlsberg cut with a lot of tap water.
Is now the part when I try out writing in the second person? Ahem:
Back at the Ved Amagerport apartment, you make yourself a bedtime shandy of Ribena and Carlsberg cut with plenty of Copenhagen tap water. During the kitchen portion of the apartment tour, Inga told you the tapwater here is excellent, which is good to hear because you’ve been drinking it for two days yet. You think it tastes funny nationwide so far but are so very spoiled by New York City. Later, during the bathroom portion, Inga told you the water is also very hard — a lot of Danish calcium — so the temperature knob of the shower faucet doesn’t move as easily as a user might like. Later still, you try writing in the second person and find it horribly, prohibitively audience-conscious.

my body and mind are jammin

I said,

I slept 13 hours so a lot of the day feels lost but wow my body and mind are jammin’

Actually I just put what turned out to be crème fraîche on my musli

So maybe my mind isn’t TOTALLY jammin’

But it’s cool

Today is so so so beautiful

I went running along some body of water

It was where the hippies make their homes

So much pot smoke in the air, and the scent has this certain edge that I can now recognize as distinctly Danish

There are lilacs everywhere

Goslings

Butterflies

I’m confused, so far keeping the blue at bay, sorta, but WOW what have I done???

my endless summer is almost over

08h15 EEST

Beach Bar Finikas

The first amazement of today is how sleepy this resort town is. I was up at seven and, by half-past, out and ready to be writing with a cup of coffee as one does in any functioning municipality, but this is the first establishment where I found so much as a sign of life, and still I was 20 minutes too early to be served. They told me I could sit and wait, though, so I am. 

The swathe of sand that underlies most of the table seating at this beachfront restaurant is raked carefully, with very few footprints in it, which means it is part of someone’s job to take up all the furniture, rake the beach, and put all the furniture back while stepping anywhere almost not at all. Who is that person, and what are they thinking about while they do it, and how does my or anyone’s patronage fit into their socioeconomy and consciousness? Who came up with the best practice for the fewest footsteps, and who enforces it, and who has anxious work dreams about it? These are droll observations for people who work in restaurants. 

This seat is directly beneath the gap between the end of their structural overhang and the roller of their awning, and I am chilled by the condensation dripping onto my shoulders. My endless summer is almost over. Maybe I won’t after all wade out while I wait into the Aegean, which is so still I don’t recognize it. Even the waves sleep late here, I guess. 

Now my coffee has arrived and is, as expected, a proper cup of sludge. I asked for it Greek with milk — διπλό ςελληνικό ςκαφές, με γάλα— and then when the waiter brought it there was visibly none in it and so I was like Hey can I have some milk and he was like There already is milk in there. But I will bring you a little more and brought me four additional creamers that I poured in, one by one, watching them be swallowed up by darkness.

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