down by the sea.

This morning it was hot. H.O.T. hot. Sunny, cloudless blue sky, pressing humidity. Despite my konversation teacher's warning yesterday about a Gewitter (thunderstorm,) I thought I could really use a trip to the beach.

I felt that I especially deserved such a treat after the 45 minute disaster that was me trying to teach German 5th graders about the "simple past tense" in English.

So after I got home, ate lunch, washed up some dishes and checked some emails, I got ready for an afternoon in the sand. I packed the newest issue of Neon magazine, put a few new chuuunes on my Droid (most notably L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. by Noah and the Whale) shoved a banana in my bag and headed off to Markleeberger lake ≈≈≈≈≈≈ in my red Wendy Pfefferkorn bathing suit (bathing suit = Badeanzeug, thank you ubiquitous H&M ads.)

When I arrived at the beach after a 15 minute bike ride, I was a bit disappointed at the lack of space under the few trees- even though I am a fervent lover of beach-time, I have some skin issues and shouldn't really be in direct sun too much. However, since all the shady spots were snagged, I somewhat reluctantly laid out my blanket on a square of sand and laid down in the full sun.

I took a look around me, as I am want to do, and saw the unavoidable naked and/or half-naked bods.  Now, I totally understand and accept the German concept of freie körper kultur (free body culture) but when you're a naked 65 year old couple and you suddenly decide to start playing football on the beach, well, I feel like at that point you're just messing with us.

As it turned out, I didn't have to endure naked kicking sports for too long, because after about 20 minutes or so  the sky began to turn an ominous blue-black. I began to see streams of rain across the lake, so I packed up and cycled home, attempting to beat the storm.

I've been laying on my bed for a half hour now and still no rain. Although the thunder is starting to roll in.

I think the rest of today will be dedicated to re-watching the 1st part of the Doctor Who midseason finale, and finally watching the last episode. Might even squeeze in a nap, but after that comes...

PUB QUIZ!

Life in limbo...

Airports have become something of a way of life for me. Within these often massive structures I wander, sometimes aimlessly and sometimes with intense purpose, usually with tired eyes burning and often with a body exhausted by broken sleep or anticipating it yet to come. I read something, inconsequentially squandering time until the next call for boarding. I watch the other travelers. They are here for business or pleasure, alone, with family or friends, excited, miserable or indifferent. Here in London Heathrow I listen to the accents of these travelers; locals drawling with cockney twang, snippets of German which I have come to understand occasionally, a clipped Indian English, something twangy and American.

The ceilings are a thousand feet high here, supported by white industrial beams reminiscent of the Death Star, and there are windows from the tip top of level three down to the asphalt, outside of which airplanes taxi in and out, while luggage cars and transport busses are dwarfed by the magnificence of the flying behemoths bedecked with the Union Jack and emblazoned with the slogan “Keeping the flag flying.”

This is only my third experience with London Heathrow, what I imagine must be one of the biggest airports in the world, but somehow it seems familiar and small to me. I remember the giraffes outside the kitchy eatery on the third level, the Starbucks adjacent to the Pret a Manger on the second level, the Duty Free into which I have invariably ducked to douse myself in perfume (either one of my favorites, Marc Jacobs Lola or Burberry Brit.)

It seems as though every traveler I see is one I’ve encountered before, smiling with anticipation, grimacing with inconvenience, or zoning out with boredom. I’m not sure where I fit in, my frenetic mind hopping from one emotion to another, my face invariably expressing it without my consent. One second there’s a giddy grin plastered across my face, the next a glazed stare out the window or in the direction of a vaguely attractive fellow traveler, still another an anxious scowl of worry about whatever mysterious future is to come, or at the very least, the whereabouts of my departure gate.