Go stand outside for five minutes. Wander around a bit. Come back inside and write about what you heard, smelled, felt, tasted. Write for 10 minutes.
Around my block, there are so many languages. I am not even sure I know what half of what I hear is. Swiss german, high german, turkish, portugese, french -- these I recognize -- and babble of what I think is russian, polish, or maybe one of the slavic languages. I am not astute enough to tell the difference. Cars and buses drown out the subtleties of all voices of these strangers I pass. The heat is starting to bear off. Gas fumes and wilting flowers mix together in the stifle. I walk by the corner shop. The grumpy owner, she is actually talking to a customer. Now this is a rare event indeed. I smile and pass on without buying anything from her today. The Turkish shop a little way down has nice vegetables and fruit. I linger a moment and this owner comes out to try to start a conversation with me in german. I smile and continue on my way, wishing him a nice day (in german). I need some money, so I stop off at the bank machine. There are always Turkish men sitting on the benches outside the bank, smoking and watching the trams go by. It's a bit surreal. I am careful about how much money I take out.
The brakes on the tram cornering away from me screech. I try to cover my ears but I am not fast enough. What a horrible sound! I continue around the block past my supermarket. They have plants out front, but none of them are the blooming kind. I can only smell the new grilled chicken stand they have left by the entry way to the shop. It is a strange place to put the take away food, I think, as you still have to go inside to the regular teller and buy it. There is often a line at this hour and it doesn't really behoove you to make a rash purchase. The grilled chicken is quite expensive considering the poor quality and size of the chicken. I can bake a chicken better than that! Although, I will have to admit I can't do anything about the size of chicken I buy; I usually buy a two-person chicken, that is, one to feed two people just enough for one night. I don't like cold chicken leftovers. James likes them sometimes in his sandwiches. Then I say he just has to eat less chicken and more vegetables in the evening.
I turn the corner again and I am on the last stretch. The "brocki" -- cheap old stuff no one else wants -- still has stuff out. I like it when they have stuffed animals or other cute things. I keep walking and look at the other side of the street. I want to see if my friend Heidi is in her apartment, or if I can see one of her fourteen cats on the netted balcony.
No sightings again. I turn into my driveway and get out my keys. It's cooler in our driveway, then out there on the street. I'm glad to be home.
