Dearest Rachel –
After nearly a week of sleeping in until (and past) nine, I find myself up this morning at seven, unable to go back to sleep. The streets are still dark (it is December, after all), and yet my mind and body have determined I have spent enough time in bed for the night.
Of course, were it the two of us here, I’d be still be spending considerably more time here, insistent that we spent this Saturday like we would most Saturday mornings. Granted, had we both been here, we might very well have been spending many of our idle hours in here doing just that already. I won’t go into great detail, but suffice to say that I miss that terribly. You’d probably tease me by reminding me how it’s all in my name.
Regardless, in less than 24 hours, my captivity will finally be over. And then what will I do? Lars keeps telling me about how this city is full of history and beauty, but all I can think of are the shops and restaurants. Even were I did to decide on a museum or the university to go to, I would have to be back at some point to set up an appointment (and then on Monday to keep it) to get myself an antigen test, so that I could actually leave on Tuesday (assuming Louise can book me a flight that quickly).
She has warned me that there may be some difficulty in terms of where I might need a layover. As I mentioned at the beginning of this week, it apparently has been determined that the UK and the Netherlands are relative hotspots here in Europe, with London (thanks quite possibly as much to Brexit as the pandemic) being a particular nightmare from a bureaucratic standpoint. Odds are, I will probably need to be routed through either Frankfort or Munich on my way out. I’m going to leave that up to her.
For now, I’m feeling like a caged animal, only without visitors. I’m trying to decide whether or not that’s a good thing. Certainly, I would not enjoy having people gawk at me in my confinement, but the lack of human contact, even after a single week, begins to wear on one. And yet, I’d prefer that contact to be on my own terms – which is to say, I’d be the one going out to see or meet somebody, rather than the other way around. Which, again, is the one thing that I can’t do yet.
The operative term being yet. I’ll be able to get out of here in less than a day now, but the fact that it’s almost all I can think about right now makes the temporal distance stretch out, not to infinity perhaps, but for longer than you’d think it would be.
There was one time when Einstein tried to explain the concept (if not the theory per se) of relativity by saying that a minute with one’s hand on a hot stove would feel like hours, while hours spent talking to a pretty girl might feel like barely a minute. Right now, I guess I’m sitting on that hot stove.
And it’s not even doing so much as to dry me off from my shower.
For all the time that has a lapsed as I’ve tried to explain myself to you this morning, it still seems as if the sun is reluctant to get up. It’s past eight-thirty now, and the sky is still dark and gray and overcast. I’m not certain (since I’ve never been up this early) whether the sun still has yet to rise, or it’s just that cloudy today. Either way, it’s really not a day full of hope, even as I know it ought to be.
Then again, perhaps that’s just something for tomorrow. For now, I should probably just try and entertain myself; I have quite a few more hours to kill, and I need to go rummage through my arsenal.
I’ll talk to you later, honey. Until then, wish me luck.