Antonymity

I’m far away.

I’m surrounded by a language that I don’t know. People stop to ask me for directions and I’m only able to answer them with one of the few sentences I know by heart - lo siento, pero no hablo mucho español. The streets are nameless to me and they don’t create a logical entity in my head. So when I’m going somewhere, I always end up going the long way. The coffee is too strong for me. The noise too loud. There are no stalls with pretzels in the streets. I’m always warm, hot, out of breath. Walking in the crowded streets annoys me. I don’t get enough sleep. I don’t know any cosy, small, independent cafes. I can’t find any margarine suitable for baking. Instead of dry yeast I have to use fresh one.

I wish I were there.
I’m happy to be here.

Fresh yeast is better than dry one. I use butter instead of margarine. I sleep short, but intensively, as always. Every now and then I find a charming wee place, smelling of chocolate and pastries. I easily overtake people struggling with umbrellas, grannies walking at a snail’s pace, but most of all indecisive tourists looking around. In the mornings and the evenings it gets a bit chilly. In the streets they sell roasted chestnuts in pokes made of newspapers. I’m filled with silence on Sunday mornings, when I open the curtains and look out onto the street. Coffee has always been to strong for me. I know a few shortcuts with which I save a few priceless moments of free time. I know the names of the most important streets – the one I live in and the ones that lead to it. I can have simple conversations and if somebody asks me for the time, I only need to think for a moment to answer. I’m surrounded by a language, that I’m getting to know.

I’m close.

Closer than I think – it’s early November, and while on a bus, I can see the outline of the hills which surround the city, covered in the light of the upcoming sun and a fragile, but very true layer of snow.