Some days ... the sky is a clear blue. There's nothing much to do. The weather is bright, but with a gentle nip in the air that invites exploration.
A single chore is halfway across town. A single bus ride takes you down past Garibaldi's men, and even more interesting, his woman, and you resolve to learn more about her. The Vatican is empty, even the sacred supermarkets. The day is so pleasurable, so full of little details and big pictures, that you arrive at the chore store with just minutes to spare before the shutters clang down, but still you find exactly what you want and need.
You walk on, and are shown the total glorious absurdity, the unfeasible pneumaticity, of Hendrick Christian Andersen's work, and the bar on the terrace of his house, a museum that features in no guidebooks you own. The disappointment of not being allowed to take photos is tempered, two days later, by the discovery that someone else has.
Your eye is assailed everywhere by bright colours, washed as if for spring, but it is autumn.
You meet friends, without planning to, in the park, and then sleep under a huge pine; warm and watched over.
Some days are just perfect.
There are photos, but, you know, being there, and remembering being there, was more important at the time than capturing memories of having been there.
Of course, all this fun gets in the way of the final Cairo Diary and Pictures of the Pyramids, but hey, they can continue to wait.
I am very lucky.
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