Sundays are my own
Every Sunday morning I lie in bed and do absolutely nothing until my back gets stiff and tells me it is time to move. Even though I dream of eggs and bacon and the blackest black coffee, my kitchen is always empty and I leave the house empty.
And then I start walking. Somewhere along the way I get a coffee, and continue walking to whatever sounds my iPod chooses for me. Today I was exceptionally happy with its choices. Last Sunday I walked East and South, today it was West and North. If not along the Hudson River, at least parallell to it, exploring every little corner of Tribeca. And every Sunday I am amazed by the places I find, that I haven’t seen before, even though I’ve been here for months. The boutiques and cafés spring out from nowhere, the choices are endless. When I reach one of the many city parks, randomly placed at a cross roads, Neutral Milk Hotel’s "Oh Comely" is the perfect choice for watching the pigeons fluff their feathers to protect themselves from the cold wind. And then I walk again. Past the boutiques, past the warehouses and then to boutiques again. After a good hour of walking, I turn around and go back.
Even though choices are limitless, for Sunday brunch it is one out of two. Petit Aubelle today. Tin-Tin, eggs and coffee. And I rediscovered Paul Auster, the New York trilogy this time. Chapter two of City of Glass is the perfect second chapter. Poor Peter Stillman.
And now, I’m back where I started. In bed, doing nothing, but this. Waiting to share my solitary Sunday with solitary friends, and a dash of Brazilian jazz.
