Читать книгу Travels in an Old Tongue: Touring the World Speaking Welsh - Pamela Petro - Страница 26

Four a.m. Last night I went to bed with my contacts in. Thank god I’d noticed that Liv’s indoor stars looked like bits of fluorescent paper, and wondered why. One night in Wales I put my lenses in a glass on my night-table instead of cleaning them, woke, and drank them in the morning.

Every neuron in my brain feels like it’s been on a forced march across the desert. Because of Norway’s drunk-driving laws, Rosemary can’t take me to the airport (the police, who’d be aware she had a party last night, would almost certainly breathalyze her if she tried to drive anywhere before noon), so I must take a red-eye train to make my seven-thirty-five flight. As I’m creeping out the front door Rosemary appears in her pink housecoat. It’s the only time I’ve seen her without pearls, though her hair is perfect. She gives me a hug, and I feel a sudden respect for her that she hasn’t given a damn about having a writer in the house.

Seven o’clock, Fornebu Airport. My digestive system seems unconnected to my head: the one is comatose, the other spinning like a dervish. There will be no Y Trip on this flight – or rather these flights, as I have to fly first to London and then Zürich in order to wind up tonight in Paris. A television monitor by the gate asks, ‘Have you dressed properly for the occasion?’ Rosemary, I think, has found her niche in this country.