Waking up in one's old home is a strange situation. To recognize the place, the air, the old tree outside the window feels odd. Like a distant memory you could draw on a sheet of paper. Pencil in hand, eyes closed. Similar to a surreal dream you remember to the smallest detail. Dreams in general I find, are a wonderous sensation.
Then suddenly I remember. There was an airport, a stop-over in Tokyo, a ten-hour flight. And I realize that it is real. I am at my parents' place. My old room. I see some of the books I left, some clothes, my old television set. The decision to come here was made a few weeks ago. The idea was old, but the plan took time to build.
Sumin and I went out to get breakfast at a café nearby. It's literally around the corner, situated on the top end of Alter Markt. Since it's summer the neighbouring pub has put an artificial beach bar in the middle of the square. It looks like shit. It always has. People seem to like it. Our breakfast was attacked by wasps, but we (re)discovered Leberwurst.
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