Eating in the Garden

The only reason I woke at 4 p.m. was Munchkin, who led me to her empty food dish. Once filled, she ignored it and demanded to go out.

I had slept 13 hours, recovering from the world’s coldest flight from Calgary to Frankfurt.

My housemate had departed for the mountains leaving me a frigo full of goodies from her August 1 National Holiday Party, a loaf of fresh bread from the local bakery and Bill Bryson’s I Am a Stranger Here Myself.

Thus I spent a glorious time sitting in the late afternoon sunshine, nibbling on carrot and celery sticks plus a sandwich, and reading often breaking into laughter. Few days have such perfect weather, neither too cool or too warm. Everything was luminous. The flowers, which had been just a few short weeks ago, seeds huddled in a packet were now debating if they were capable of, with one more little push, to become blossoming trees. The mountains were in the background.

In my last flat I practically lived on my balcony during the summer months, but it has been years and years and years since I have a garden to sit in and relish being there and relish I did.