Okay. I’m downstairs in the Grand Cafe. I order a dry cap, but the foam is a little too wet and already collapsing, the shots pulled long. I get my box of pastries. Good enough.
Back at the room, I run the bath, I gather up the paper, I organize my coffee and my pastries, and I climb in the water. It’s hot. I mean really hot. I’m sweating. I take a bite of pastry. Okay. I try to read, but its kind of hard. I’m sweating. I think I’m reading about whether we’re entering a recovery or not. I take a sip of coffee.
I wait a few minutes, but my phone doesn’t buzz.
What’s the pleasure in something undeserved? A bath, any pleasure really, must be earned and earned in the right way. Even by the end of today if I’m lucky I’ll have spent the better part of my time writing. But I will not have run 12 miles or heaved a ton and a half of coal or been zapped by a few centigrays of uranium. No heavy lifting (really heavy lifting) whatsoever.
So there you have it: stuck yet at the Monaco, staring at the most lovely of cakes, with no desire (let alone right) to eat it.