Du hast die Wahl

I count my last euro coins, it is barely enough for a bottle of cold mineral water and some grapes. Like with Céline, this summer has appeared to be a predetermined journey to the end of the night. Today, hiking along Côte d'Azur, I felt like in another novel, one by John Fowles, yet confident that the Swedish teacher was right all along in her words: “do not forget that one always has a choice”.

Tomorrow I will turn 29. I hope that day will mark an end to splintered realities. As a first step I have decided to discontinue Rawls & Me. In fact, I made that decision some days ago but I thought I owed it a final post. Much like the last of June at Nero in Brighton, the night before the smoking ban came into effect. Never have I seen so many people smoking so many cigarettes.

A last night in the international hostel environment, scattered Canadian voices making plans for trips along Cinque Terre. My shoulders are itching, all burnt from the sun on Cap Ferrat. Standing there by the lighthouse, just like on Cape Cod, thinking that in five months I will indeed make landfall on the distant shores of the dim west.