The taste of home

Have you ever thought about the taste of your home? No? My home tastes like a cuppa - strong black tea with raspberry syrup. Have you ever drunk black tea with raspberry syrup? No? You need to try this! But make sure that the water is boiled on a gas hob in a traditional kettle. Do not cheat! I tried to cheat and it didn’t work. It has to be a traditional kettle put on a gas hob, or even better over a fire.

My Mum drank this special tea with raspberry syrup even if there was completely nothing on the shelves in the shops during the time of communism. Do not ask how she did it, but her tea and syrup was always there – at home – together with feeling happy, feeling safe and feeling a conviction that I belonged to something, to somewhere… whatever happened outside.

So why was I stupid enough to move out without a traditional kettle, a couple of tea bags and a bottle of my Mum’s special raspberry syrup? Do not ask. I just stupidly did it and I stupidly believed that other tastes would help me to build a new home. But it didn’t happen.

Guinness with black

I went for my first walk around the village we have just moved to, alone. I found a church, a village hall, a library, a tea room, a pub and a couple of shops - one with the post office inside. I posted my letters there and a lady weighed them on a traditional scale, not trusting any electronic devices, using weights. I also bought a newspaper and then I went to the church. But the church in my village was closed, and so was the library, so I had no choice and I had to pop in to the pub and then I finally sat down in the beer garden, with the view of a pond. 

I was drinking Guinness with blackcurrant syrup, as usual. But this time I tried to really savour my usual drink, my Guinness with black. There was no reason to celebrate. Opening the newspaper made me sure that I should cry rather than enjoy myself, so I closed it. I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of the rich liquid, waking up all my taste buds. The frothy beer head stayed on my lips, so I gently licked them like a child drinking warm milk before bedtime. 

I wished I could be a child again, drink milk and sleep calmly without nightmares.

I opened my bag, took out my notebook and pen and I started to write. The wind played with the pages and my hair, disturbing the process of finding the right words, the appropriate words. It started raining. The large, heavy drops soaked into the ink and coloured the paper black. There was no reason to stay there any longer. But I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of my tears flush with mascara, which hacked their way down my face in order to join the spots on the paper. The dark furrows stayed on my cheeks like footsteps in the sand. 

I wished I could find my way, leaving behind the footsteps and the village.

What happens to cheap compliments…

I walked fast, lightly, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know. I breathed deeply, but not too deeply, just deeply enough to smell the asphalt. The hot rays of the summer sun had melted the asphalt but they didn’t burn my skin as the wind brought a coolness, a reminder that we lived on an island. If I had breathed deeper I would probably have smelt the ocean. If I had closed my eyes and ignored the noise of a thousand streets and a million cars I would probably have heard the shrill, penetrating squawk of seagulls. 

But I didn’t. I did not breathe deeper than I had been because a single deep breath would cause a strong, disgusting cough. I also didn’t close my eyes and I didn’t listen to other sounds because I already had too many voices in my head, and I didn’t want to multiply the fears I was trying to overcome. I just kept walking, smoking my cigarette, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know.

- (Whistle!) Hey, lass! You look so French… so chic! (Whistle!).

That day I felt beautiful, I felt confident, I felt glamorous but I was surprised that these feelings were so visible to the outside. I smiled, embarrassed. I’m always embarrassed when someone catches me when I’m simply feeling good. So I smiled, embarrassed, and I grabbed this compliment greedily, I fed my vanity, and then I put the remains in my paper bag. In there already were a couple of disposable boxes I was about to dispose of as I had already consumed the contents.

I threw all this rubbish into the nearest bin. I was thinking about the chic beggar man who was going to find them that evening, going through the bin, looking for food … and I was glad that that compliment was cheap enough not to make him sick. And then I just kept walking, looking around, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know. I breathed deeply, but not too deeply, just deeply enough…

The truth has a smell of strawberries

When I tell people that I work as a cleaner in a big hotel in the city centre I always see a shade of disgust on their faces. Probably they are right that it’s not the nicest job. Sometimes I’m terrified by the mess I need to tidy up after the clients. Sometimes I’m terrified by the clients, facing the mess they leave. But most of the times I’m curious… I’m morbidly curious about who they are and what brought them to the hotel for the night, these nights. Maybe I’m too nosy but before I smell their used towels and examine the creases on their sheets, I observe them in the corridors and in the lifts, hiding behind my trolley, big enough to block the corridors and fill the lift, piled up with fresh bedding. For most of them I remain invisible despite the fact that they definitely see my trolley. And it’s good… it’s exactly as it should be. My invisibility is an advantage in my work as I can not only be curious, but I can also feed this curiosity, as I investigate the truth.

I met her in the corridor this morning. Her beauty emanated when she walked, carrying a bunch of roses, caring for them. She wasn’t pretty, but the way she moved, her walk, light but confident, her smile and the expression on her face was so unusual that I held my breath. She looked at me, she looked deep into my eyes and she said directly but with a note of embarrassment in her voice: 

- Good morning. I’m so sorry for the mess but I had a small accident with fresh strawberries.

I was so surprised that I couldn’t squeeze out any words. I tried to hide, I hoped that she had just walked away but she was still there, making my secret so naked that I felt the cold. She knew that I was going to discover her truth soon, and so she disclosed mine, making me her ally in her rented life.

- Fresh strawberries? Don’t worry, I won’t even open my mouth … won’t utter a word – I whispered to her so quietly that even I couldn’t hear. 

But she took my soundless words and wrapped them tightly with her roses in a plastic, rustling sheath.

When I tell people that I work as a cleaner in a big hotel in the city centre I always see a shade of disgust on their faces. Probably they are right that it’s not the nicest job. But they don’t know that this job lets me investigate the truth … which has a sweet smell of strawberries. And they won’t know this as I won’t utter a word… I promised…