The sea

Slovenia. Mountain country. Rain and lots of green.

Yesterday I stood with Marjanna in the tower of villa Waldberta to enjoy the view before it turned dark. On clear days you can see the Alps from there, she said.

Later, after dinner, when we drank wine, we talked about books. She told me her favorite writer was Virginia Woolf. I left "The Waves" in Barcelona. I didn't finish it there. I tried to remember what was the last book I read. It must have been Hemmingway's "The old man and the sea."

She asked about the books I had brought on my trip. Small ones mainly. A book about knots. A book about sex and suits. A book about flowers. A biography about Franciscus of Assisi, "The very lowly.". Leigh Fermour's "A time to keep silence". Robert Walser's "The Walk". Phil Smith's "Enchanted Things. Signposts to a new nomadism." And at the last moment I grabbed this one. A theater dialogue by Renée van Marissing. "Er was niet de zee", in English: "There wasn't the sea."

There wasn't the sea. There was a dusty Slovenian city and the sun was shining for a change. I seated myself on a bench in front of the train station and waited for the train to Most na Soci. A last bus from there. Into the mountains.