Best of all is to wake up in the morning with nothing to do all day, except read and write, and maybe cook some pasta and an apple for supper. No deadlines, nowhere you have to be something-sharp. Under these conditions, I can settle down and focus on whatever I'm doing. Otherwise my internal clock ticks too loudly.
Yesterday I half-dozed in the hammam, listening to two young women talking in a language I not only didn't understand, but hadn't the faintest idea what it might be, save that, physically, they looked Caucasion-European. Not that this means much: I've listened to women talk back and forth in adjoining showers, their Italian so fast I can't catch a word--though I know it's Italian.
Feeling wrinkly clean, I took my old Modern Library Kafka to my usual spot. It was late, there were a few drops of rain, people were deserting, the scooter brigade, the chess players, the boulistes. I found myself one of the deepest reclining chairs, usually in short supply, I dragged it under a chestnut tree, whose leaves are beginning to make a circle on the lawn. Chestnuts were plopping down. I resisted the temptation to pocket a few.