Thursday, March 7, 2013

March 7, 2013

There couldn’t have been a more dreary contrast in the weather than the one I faced this morning. Temperatures dropped to 28 degrees Fahrenheit and the skies turned that leaden color signaling snow was just about to start falling. I had to find my felt booties again just to keep my feet warm.

I had stayed up the night before reading “Stolen Lives” and got through about half of the paperback. So this morning, I was bleary eyed and tired. I had breakfast and then did the dishes as the landlady had promised to come by with the plumber by noon. I emailed Damira to remind her I still needed a handyman to come by and replace the broken window pane, and she promised to follow up on it.

I had agreed to meet with Willoughby in afternoon so we could have a cup of coffee and catch up on the latest news in our lives. I had suggested meeting at the new coffee house behind Lingua and just as I was about to get there, she called to say she was at the other coffee house near my house, the one suggested by my landlady.

I got off the trolley in front of the Opera Ballet so as to go across the street and board another one in the opposite direction. There were lots of people hustling about, many selling single roses in cellophane wraps and chocolates, in anticipation of the International Women’s Day celebration tomorrow.

After going through the underpass and getting to the bus stop, a chilly mixture of rain and snow started falling accompanied by high winds. I was only wearing a sweater, pants, socks and my clogs and felt the cold go right through my clothes.

Willoughby called to say the coffeehouse was full of ashtrays, thus out of bounds for me, and we decided to meet at Vanilla Sky across from my flat. This time, we had a server who spoke some English and helped us order the right kind of coffee. Mine came as hot as I like it and it was a decent latté. Willoughby ordered a frozen coffee drink and was happy as well.

She had baked some oatmeal cookies for me knowing I still don’t have access to an oven, a gesture I really appreciated. We discussed all things related to Lingua, Forum, the Peace Corps and the U.S. Embassy and said goodbye before six.

I returned to my flat, had some leftovers and then watch an interesting, albeit somewhat dissatisfying, film, “Nothing Personal” about a young Dutch woman who goes to live in Ireland to put her past, of which we know nothing, behind her. I then returned to the “Stolen Lives” book and stayed up all night to finish it. What a spellbinding story. There must a movie out there, I am sure.

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