Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Walk walk walk walk walk walk walk

Last night we went wandering and I remembered the person that I am. I had forgotten this; I had lost the footfalls that make me Jane. But it is, and always has been, my recipe for happiness: take one boy and one bottle of wine, set forth in a direction, discover. Actually, even the boy and the wine are superfluous. New York cured a litany of broken hearts with feet after feet over bridges, all day and forever. I talk of the sluttery that heralded the release, but that came later. The post-care medicine after the surgery. The truth was walking.

We pointed our bodied west and armed ourselves with Chardonnay. We walked through chi-chi Kreuzberg with its baby boots and pottery studios, and we laughed. James pointed out every building that looked like a cake of a building and said, “Look at that building. It looks like a cake. I love it when they make buildings that look like cakes.”

I concurred. I explained to him that all of this was ours and no one could stop us from walking down these streets: whatever happened, whether we were rich or poor or settled or wild, the city streets were the last honest gift to the people and we would wander forever without paying a dime to stare at the cake buildings and drink and hold hands and revel in the rhythms of our feet.

He said, “Yes, yes, you’re right,” and we grinned and then we came across a waterfall carved out of rock all the way to the skyline. In the distant peak there was a church spire and a green merman tended to the bottom pool like a Greek myth waiting to grab you by the hair. There were caves made of pine needles and lazy boughs where a girl could sit and lose herself hiding from the tarmac and the troubles of the world. But no time for that now, we walked on

through red-orange-green beep beep junctions and cobbled backstreets and shop windows and supermarkets more wine and statues at the side of the road like waiting armies and leaning buildings trying to read the newspapers over your shoulder and then, at a square, in Schonenberg, we stopped.

We wanted a cigarette but there were no cigarettes and it was late. We had worn our shoes out. It was time for home.

We boarded the subway and sped home like penguins diving into deep water. We covered an incredible distance in an incredibly short time. We bought more wine and came home to the swingseat in the garden and the rain started to pitterpatter on the cover over our heads.

We promised each other more walks, always and forever, and then I fell into a deep deep sleep where I dreamt of ballgames and rollercoasters. 

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