Arrival
Here I am. Thirty-four years old, seated in a Boeing 747. The giant plane is diving into a thick cover of clouds, about to land at Mirabell airport. A chill November rain darkens the land, turning the scene into a gloomy Flemish painting. Airport workers in their rain-gear, the flags atop the faceless airport buildings. Here I am, I think. The plane completes its landing procedures, the no smoking sign goes off, and soft background music issues from the ceiling speakers.
I look up at the dark clouds over the northern sky and think of how many things I have lost in the course of living. Even now, so many years later, I can still picture this scene with amazing clarity
This was 20 years ago, November, the shittiest month to arrive in a city. Everything is grey. The rain is washing away the last leaves from the trees that in summer had camouflaged the ugliness of the streets and the fronts of buildings, made of wood frames, embellished with fake stone or brick façaderie. But now I am here, and this time not as a tourist. What am I doing here?
