I'm screaming in the dark. It must be too soon. I close my eyes again, and I'm rolling over in a bed I have no intention of leaving just yet. Any minute now, I'm expecting that annoying alarm sound. It's not really terrible—I've set Mozart, after all—but it's still the kind of sound that drags you out of sleep. But nothing comes.
I open my eyes and realize I've woken an hour and a half early. I fumble for my glasses, get up, and turn on the computer to read the digital edition of my favorite newspaper. Before that, I'll drift to the kitchen, greet the cat, and wrestle with the choice between tea and coffee. Chocolate tea wins, and soon I'm settled with my cup, reading the news. That's how I like mornings—a gentle threshold into the day, not the rush and clatter, waking gently, still sleepy...
I listen to music and watch the sleeping city outside. Everywhere is still, except for the savings bank nearby where someone is already hunched over a computer. Living in a foreign land gives you strange thoughts to carry. Snow is falling—the real kind, big and white, not the usual grey slush. I might as well go out early and take a walk. After breakfast and my morning routine, I haphazardly toss a few textbooks and notebooks into my backpack, along with that absurd Beckett play I just finished. The physics professor wants an hour of rehearsal, I've calculated. Nothing special on my schedule—my own classes are off, just French conversation drills at the academy. And then there's the tiresome part: shopping. I'll get dressed, make a half-hearted attempt at my hair (pointless, really), leave something nice for the cat so she won't give me that resentful look, and then, wrapped against the cold, I'll step out into another day.
I usually take the subway to school, but I can't say I enjoy it. Maybe in summer, when the weather's decent. Otherwise? The noise, the crowds, no views, endless queues at the escalators. Not today, though—not when I have time to spare. I'll take the bus and metro for most of the way, only resorting to the subway for the final stretch (unavoidable, unfortunately). While waiting at the bus stop, I pull out my headphones and listen to something slow. Snow is beginning to fall... A bus appears down the road, gliding smoothly toward the stop. I board and settle by the window, watching the city slip past. I do miss nature out here, abroad. I love my adopted country—the architecture, the history, the cultural life—but there's something to be said for having a forest just two kilometres from your doorstep. The bus moves forward, but at a crawl. Almost no one else is on board. Soon comes the transfer to that dreaded subway, and my journey will be complete.
But I'm in too good a mood to let a little inconvenience get me down. I still have time to walk through the old quarter of town. The illuminated buildings and churches catch my eye as I pass. I've known for ages now that Amsterdam reveals its true beauty at night. And even more so in winter—it becomes something out of a fairy tale.
The first shops are opening their doors; the streets are no longer empty. Time for the next leg. I descend into the subway, which will spit me out right at the school entrance. The sky above is still that perfect dark blue, the city relatively hushed—a stark contrast to what awaits. And already I can hear them: barely fourteen-year-old boys, cigarettes in hand, their voices booming...
I won't let them spoil this. I keep going. I've been turning something over in my mind—this morning has been so lovely that I think I might write about it on my blog. I'm trudging through the messy snow, nearly there now. It's shaping up to be a good day.