Sunlight burnishes the road while I sit in a patch of it and stir my coffee. I've seen three weeks of Norway, with no bad news from home. I'm beginning to get my northern legs and my language. I'm seeing friends again, and a few more people have joined us. One of the new women, Stella, is a crazy movie buff from Limoges, and so she's started screening movies every Wednesday night. It's so normal, and I welcome it.
But I must adjust to not having email anymore, or a phone. I'm back to postcards, and I check the mail every day. Words from Henry are far between. I think we've never gotten used to anything more than our twice-a-year notes. Anything else I guess is extra. And that tells me something. So I ask, how often have I written him?
Not so much since I met Sevario.
And he sends postcards and letters and once a box of sauces from his favorite shop in Santiago.
The bell above the door jingles, and a couple of customers wander into the store. Can I hear them speaking, know what language? I like to have an idea before they ask me a question--not that I have much of a repertoire. Mostly numbers and "thank you"--and the prices are posted anyway. But it helps me get my brain into gear. I don't like to be caught unprepared.
Next the door bumps a little, and Lily's dog pushes his way into the store. He likes it in here for some reason I can't guess. I also can't leave the store while customers are in it, so the pup and I sit by the counter and wait.