I was sitting in the plane, reading a book about the age after the big pandemic, the story of an orchestra and theatre company traveling between the sparse settlements on the North American continent preforming Shakespeare after a flu killed almost every human on Earth. Title: “Station Eleven”, a gift from Natalia, my pop cultural soulmate.
I glanced out through the window and saw the sun casting long shadows behind the snow-covered mountains of southern Spain. The sky a blue-shifting haze, the airplane wing. Formerly, a sight that would instil a feeling of freedom and boundlessness in me. Now, it’s complicated. And with the book in my lap, the thought hit me: this might not be possible for much longer. The vantage point of Earth from above. The implications, an unsettling thought.
Later, waiting for my connection. In Casablanca, but still not quite. French and English in the too-loud loudspeakers. Originally, I was meant to fly through Brussels yesterday. A day after the departure hall was blown up. The world already is an unsettling place.
I’m in Casablanca, but I’ll only see the generic tax-free stores. As always, my feet were too big for the beautiful Moroccan slippers in one of the few not-boring shops. Just as well. It gives me a reason to come back. Casablanca.
Confession: Earlier, I ate soft blue cheese. I threw it into my bag while emptying the fridge at home, not knowing if the airport personnel would let me keep it. They did, and I carried it with me all the way to Casablanca. Here, I ate it, just like that, with a spoon straight out of the package. Strong, smelly, almost liquid from the heat. Probably the last piece of decent cheese that I will eat for a long time.
Katja Malmborg 