Last week I couldn’t decide which Gabriel Garcia Marquez book to (re)read, so I began Love in the Time of Cholera and re-began One Hundred Years of Solitude. I forgot how much I love the latter, and can’t believe how long it took me to read the former after first hearing about it on Oprah’s Book Club segment years ago when my sole occupation involved working early mornings at McDonald’s and then watching daytime television while my mother folded endless loads of washing.
I feel like, if I ever went to South America, the light would look the way One Hundred Years of Solitude makes me feel. Bright, and content, and curious. A little confused – because hey, it’s disconcerting when you realise that hundreds of years have slipped by without noticing. Lighter than air, and more in touch with myself, my desires, my true-true. It’s hard to fall out of touch with things when just looking up from your computer screen makes you happy.
This last weekend was the Labour Day long weekend in Melbourne, and my partner and I spent the three days reconnecting. We’ve had a stressful couple of months (years) and it was nice to be able to sit back, explore the city we love and remind ourselves of all the things that made us stand up in the cold and the wind eighteen months ago and promise each other forever.
Summer’s on its way out, oscillating between autumn chill and muggy hot days worthy of the middle of January. I can’t wait for the cold, woolly jumpers and big mugs of tea and digging my bright red coat out of the back of the wardrobe. But summer’s last hurrah is a time for celebrating, for relishing those last few days of daylight savings, going out for dinner and still being able to stroll home leisurely in the twilight.
I’m a hermit for most of summer, being a bookworm and pale-skinned to boot. But the end of summer, while it always takes too long to wind down for my taste, tends to feel like a treat. Or maybe that’s just the long weekend and beautiful translated novels.