My lovely Danish cat lady host and bike-lender is pushing a healthy Danish six feet tall, so the first thing I did today was ride the borrowed bike directly to the coffee shop out of which my friend the proprietor also rents out bikes and ask him to take a wrench to its seat height for me. Then I hung around a while, getting rowdy on a latte—I guess now commences a slide back into caffeine, as everywhere there is no other choice—and advice on how to live. He told me to seek out Jewish painters and/or musicians in Berlin, that they will anchor the energy I’m out here after. He said, Danish people are like fucking ice.
When I was done with work for the day I spent some time re-doing the closures on my knapsack, swapping the overlong unfinished and fraying twine I found at Morris’s in Marrakech when the original drawstring bit the complete dust in the first place for the surviving intact lace on my hiking boot and using an interior segment of the broken lace to replace that littler string latch — the latter innovation a particular point of pride — I’m feeling it now — especially the way I melted the ends to really finish the job — all while watching a little Brooklyn Nine-Nine to feel comfort raised to the power of a push to get a move on, into the unknown for which I have willfully left all that, and then I began the walk into town.
