After so many years of wandering life Sunday equals late waking-ups and lazy brunches. This morning, as I didn’t have my personal slave to spoil me, I’ve been forced to roll out of bed and get out looking for milk. Not an easy one if you are in a small village, lost in the mountains that has zero open supermarket till Monday morning. There may not be shops open there but they’ve got this brilliant idea: milk dispenser. You won’t find junk food in it, just plain fresh whole milk – don’t forget to bring your own bottle to fill. When I was approaching the dispenser I saw a woman cleaning it and I thought «Oh, no s****! No milk for me!» but turned out being there just for filling in the next dispenser machine with fresh hand made yoghurt, butter, and cheese. And there I recognised her. If it is true that I grew up in a small village, it is also true that I never “fill in” with the local crowd. I was the black sheep, the one who attended piano and art lessons, the one wearing Clarks and dungarees, the one going to the city visiting exhibitions. The kids weren’t particularly interested in me and the feeling was mutual. There was really nothing that tied us together: nor their activities – limited to going around in bikes or attending church functions on Saturday morning, or playing footballs – or their lives that I knew were destined to “being local”. We knew each-other and we ignored each-other equally. So, after decades I met one of this girls and, for some strange reasons, it has been very nice. We didn’t talk much as we’ve never been friends or have anything to share, but the expressions in our faces revealed a kindness and such good will that it is for me very hard to find anywhere or to experience in “normal life”.
And this is something.