I am on my way - with a camera in hand, and a smile on my face. I am on my way to meet my friends. At the usual places that we always go to - the ones we are slaves to - the light of Viertel in Bremen, the small paves streets which look like nothing out of this century, the small houses with the roses growing next to the doors as if they were there from last century, and the music in my ears is that of Ella Fitzgerald (and that's even older than that other century):
... Sweet dreams 'till sunbeams find you,
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.
But in your dreams, whatever they be.
Dream a little dream of me.
The sun is shining through the ghostly morning air being reflected in the water droplets in everyone's hair (especially in that cat's). It is a Saturday for a brunch in the street although there are cars passing by (which is why we simply pull the construction sign at the entrance and we pretend we have no idea why it is there directing the cars to the adjacent street). The bread smells divine - like bread - saciating, smooth, thick, of memories from childhood, of motherly embrace, of baby skin, of butter (the French knew all about that), of fresh fruit and honey. The coffee bubbles in the French press, giving in to the warmth of the water, surrendering its color and flavor.
They turn to each other, oblivious of the group of people around, and they touch - not their hands (which they have to force themselves to hold back) or legs (which they remember are also a seductive tool) but their thoughts - and their eyes. They lock them on the other person as if the croissants with nougat cream on the table don't tempt at all.
And then he takes over - the conversationalist, pointing his finger around with the philosophical gusto of a trouble-maker. It is Saturday morning but a philosopher is always teaching and asking, always asking and teaching - forget about the smelly cheese brötschen he has to prepare for his girlfriend before she hops on to her busy work life (on a Saturday) - he can multitask. Until those three pretty girls show up down the street.
And then they all (they=men) turn their eyes on them, following their moves through the little street as if the tennis match was just about to start and that small green snitch-of-a-ball is about to get hit again. They admire the purity - they don't stare, they don't desire. They simply observe - because it is a Saturday morning - not a time for action.
And then someone new came along - someone who looked like the mysterious animal tamer - who has the secrets ready to be told - but he won't - he just puts up the paper for a show. He seduces the audience like a true story-teller, lowering his voice, making bigger pauses, widening his eyes, and asking questions: "Do you want to know what happened next?"
But he won't tell. We'll have to wait until next time - no matter how much we beg. Story doesn't end - it has organic growth. Day by day, Saturday by Saturday. Weather-dependent of course but only in terms of its location - a smile does not need the sun (the sun needs the smile). And the brothers embraced, "Until next time, bro!"
"Until next time!"
