Aftermath.

418. When politeness is no longer required.
J., sarcastically: Well, you should go and write to him about how much you've missed him. 
Me, equally sarcastically: Should I tell him that you have been missing him too? 
J., thinking: Tell him that I have been missing him like, how do I say this, like one misses a broken leg.

419. At work. Late afternoon.

Anna: my god do you see that?

Anna: I mean do you see that you can't see?

A white wall of water outside my window, Brussels under a thunderstorm. 

Then, comes the rainbow.

420. Spending the first post-Italy evening together, and having random conversations that would make no sense to anyone, except possibly Zoe if she could hear us, and maybe Mario or Daisy, you know, the ones who were there. Looking up the lottery results of Sora, just in case my ticket or Gaston's was actually the winner of a car, which Mario has already promised to drive to Brussels just in case. Checking the list of James Bond movies, 19 of which were already named during the breathtakingly gorgeous hiking trail in Trieste. "We didn't have A view to kill," I protest. "Yes, I said it, Dangereusement vôtre," he insists. "But that's in French, and you weren't sure..." "Yes, in my head I was sure..." "But that's in your head!" We count it anyway. Debating whether we should get three, white, boooring plastic rubbish bins, me trying to condition on the fact that only if I am allowed to draw on them. Or at least on one of the bins, myself being one of the three flatmates an equity apartment. "Well, I could let you draw, but you have no talent...," after having seen my postcard to my godson, depicting my fellow travelers with neither Zoe nor Gaston (nor myself, for that matter) being remotely recognizable. "Well, when was the last time you ever drew anything?" I ask, implying (probably) that bad drawing is still better than no drawing at all. "Did I draw something last week?" Gaston wonders out loud. "No, you didn't. I would know, because I was with you 24/7 last week..." Transferring photos for each other, the hundreds of random moments, about the only tangible (if electronic files can be considered tangible) proof that we were there.

Back.

415. Some of the thoughts that go through my mind, at 8:30 am in the morning, dressed in work clothes, having the familiar cereals/fruit breakfast, leaning against the windowsill looking out into the shiny European Parliament building.

#1. It's possible (and nice) not to have internet access for ten consecutive days, except for five minutes on the fourth day to tell one of your bosses that no, you will not have internet access.

#2. It's strange not to see Zoe's bright aqua blue, super short shorts when waking up...

#3. Or hear Gaston's theatrical, super cheerful "Good moooorning!" 

#4. Instant coffee, it seems, is no longer on the breakfast menu. The half-full Nestle jar has Italy to blame. 

#5. No matter how far, or how hard, I try to strain my eyes, I do not see blue water, mystical Roman ruins, silhouettes of mountains against the bright sky, glowing full moon hanging precariously in the dark night, fireworks blossoming above historical castle, stone beach stretching out to the end of the horizon.

416. Coming back into the office after ten days and seeing "BE GOOD, GAZPACHO!", written in purple chalk on the (green) blackboard, with a smiley, girly face and long curly hair next to it. On the left, another, and opposite, instruction, "Be Evil, Gazpacho!", written in blue chalk, accompanied a smiley, boyish face and short hair. It takes me a while to realize what was going on, that is, once I spot what I had written, before leaving on vacation: in white chalk, "Be good, Rosalina!", with a smiley, unisex (why?) face and a pair of glasses.

A few minutes later, a green line of text is added beside Professor E. Gadd's wise words. "NO!! She is evil enough!" Princess Peach would know -- she has just spent ten consecutive days with me, sharing the same bed, having every meal together.

A few minutes later, a white line of text is added, at the request of Bowser. "August 18, 10:30 am. Bowser being nice to Gazpacho-y, for the first (and only?) time! (And he thinks he is the personification of nicitude.)" It takes me two trials to write the word nicitude, partly because it is not a real word, partly because I am still recovering from the shock that came from Bowser's compliment, "You look very cute today." "Today?" I has mocked him. "The one time I am nice to you...," he has sulked, and made me write down the historical moment.

Welcome back to work.

417. Almost midnight. Place Flagey, outside De Valera's. In a maroon, hooded Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt, Anna holds up an imaginary penis and pretends, convincingly, to pee in front of us. "Why is she looking at you when she does that?" Zoe asks Christian. "How should I know?" Christian shrugs. "I sit..."

After a few beers, black velveteens, nachos, and porto, the truth always comes out.

Italy VI.

#. The crystal moment when you are reminded that, while strength is usually needed in speaking out, strength also lies in keeping silent, and you find yourself completely amazed at the silent courage of a dear friend.

Feynman.

367. 9 am. Geluck's office. We are having a meeting because as Geluck was leaving work last Friday, I told him that I had something to show but it could wait until Monday morning. What is it about, he wanted to know, and I responded that he would find out in just a little over two days' time. 

"How are you this morning?" I ask, the usual small talk before going into equations and theorems. 

"I've been thinking about it a lot," Geluck replies. "And I've concluded that you are a sadist."