He's a scientist and scholar, well-known in certain circles. One of the moments that stands out most in his lecture is when he displays his dinosaur tie. It's a necktie with a brontosaurus on it; he fondly refers to it as a "hideous gift" from his wife and adds that the only reason he takes it along with him on trips is to preserve marital harmony.
I like making fruit platters, not only because they're tasty, but because I like to lay the fruits out as if they're jewels on display - deep green and lush red, sparkling purple and plump orange.
I spend time in the company of two story-tellers. One talks about things that he actually did and experienced - an exquisite multi-course dinner in Spain, an encounter with brazen pickpockets in eastern Europe. The other makes stories up and relates them with an expression that never succeeds at being 100% serious (it's his eyes, they twinkle too much); with this second story-teller I have fun guessing how much is fiction and how much fact, and at the end it hardly seems to matter anyway, because I'm laughing too hard.
Great conversation full of both depth and digression, in a warm, crowded, noisy room. It spills out of doors afterwards, in a walk through slushy streets, where everything is mostly cold and still except for our voices and laughter.
Being able to rest my head on her shoulder, even for several seconds only, makes all the difference in an evening marked with weariness and aches.
Rain doesn't just saturate earth and sky with water but with sound as well. The sounds - of rain against roof, puddle, window, coat, and concrete - accompany me everywhere.
I don't know yet if anything will come of these tentative considerations, which center on a quiet town, a rocky coast, lighthouses, boats, shops selling fudge and ice cream, hiking trails, leafy parks and old houses, an inn with a large downy bed.