The light is everywhere you look. It expanded your room, pushed the kitchen further away, covered the coffee table and the sofa with a soft golden veil. It seems that it pushed out the air itself, and now the room is filled with pure golden light with some white shining dust floating up. This light is special, not like any other in any other place in the world. This light makes you smile.
You run down the stairs almost not touching them, eager to see the world outside. It does not disappoint you – there is even more of this light here. It seeps through people’s dresses and skin, polished the warm stones stairs in front of the Basilica, it fills the shiny glasses of rose with tiny sparkling bubbles, which move up the liquid into the air and become the light itself.
The water of the Danube blends with the golden light and you can no longer see where the water ends and the light begins. Crossing the Margit Bridge, you stop in the middle for what seems like a second. Overwhelmed, almost floating, you cannot stop the light from sipping into your own clothes, your skin, your heart. You smile, feeling at the same time some part of you dissolving, evaporating, leaving you and becoming the warm air around.
You close your eyes.
You hear the doves cooing and their tiny footsteps on the roof window just above your head. They meld into the soft rhythm of rain drops. You put your heavy warm duvet over your head and sink your body deeper into the mattress. The outside may be wet and windy, but inside your little cave it is warm, quiet and peaceful.
Later in the day the rain changes to heavy fog, which hangs over the peaks in cold damp clouds. You pull on your waterproof jacket and trousers and venture outside. Your eyes rest on the fields of brownish heather and grey skies. The fog crawls into your armpits, gets caught between the eyelashes and fills your lungs.
The sun has not even showed up today, but it is already getting darker. Further in the distance you can see the grey stone houses of Hathersage with warm glow of light in the narrow windows. Imagining having some peppery stew and a pint to go with it, you start walking faster, misplace your foot on the stone and fall on the ground. When your fingers sink into the cool moist grass and heather, you feel as if some part of you is seeping through your fingertips into the ground.
Open your eyes.
Your head is spinning from the overwhelming fragrance. Magnolia, lilac, cherry trees, tulips, daffodils and linden have decided to time their efforts and explode into bloom all during one unusually warm week in the end of March. The grass still looks yellow and patched after the winter, and the leaves did not fully come out, but the flowers cover the whole city, putting the citizens into a kind of narcotic trance with their smell.
You cycle along the canal and further into the old town on cobbled streets of Petite France. On one of the small bridges you stop and spend a couple of minutes looking around at the pink magnolia tree, which already started dropping its petals into the water. Whether it is the smell affecting your sense of judgement or this truly is the most perfect sight you have ever seen, you are not sure.
You breath in and out, feeling the urge both to throw up and to dissolve into the this flower fiesta “à l’alsacienne”, but catch yourself right on time. No more parts of you will be left around the world so irresponsibly. You will not allow yourself to feel any love towards this place. This time you are able to do it.