This morning I walked down on the promenade and watched the ducks in the sea. Little black dots in the swirling murky water. It's mild for January, a soft heat which tricks you into thinking it's spring. There's the slight smell of grass and popping buds.
Last night we walked back from the walled city and the lock was open and we sat and watched a huge cargo ship passing through, leaving our port to head out across the seas. Pale-faced Eastern European sailors looked up from the deck, departing from this strange land, destined for another.
Ports, stations and airports. Criss-crossing, moving, leaving, arriving, diaspora sandwich zones! Airports have now lost their favorable souls as we are herded like cattle from one area to another, enslaved by 'security'. Ports and stations retain their sense of freedom, providing openings, breaches, apertures for getting lost, meetings in no-mans lands, saying goodbye and maybe finding your way again.
On the beach this morning, as I walked along the promenade, a bare-footed girl was sat on the edge of the stone wall drinking a bowl of coffee. She swang her legs as the sea whispered and whistled through the gentle clang-clang of the sailing boats in the marina. The sky was grey this morning but the air was fresh and the walking revived me as I thought of Will Self and psychogeography and the flaneurs. But that is a story for another day.....