isoglossia

This autumn would be better with less antibiotics and more almost anything else besides antibiotics. Tacos, for example.

A Saturday morning in September. Taken during some idle, time-killing minutes of waiting for Magda to drop out of the sky.

(Check out the chromatic aberrations in the enormous original version.)

Sorry, can’t talk now.

Two winters ago Kristin used to drop her spare keys into an inter-office mailer and send them off to me any weekend she was flying up to Glasgow, which was most weekends. The keys had a pleasant heft and came attached to a fob made of loden in the form of the Swiss flag. Best of all, the keys gave a weekend’s worth of access to Kristin’s spacious flat on the top floor of a stately old building near the center of Ljubljana. Here’s what her flat looked like:

Adam was a year old. We’d arrive Friday evening and get sandwiches from the short-lived Subway around the corner, pick up some red on the way back, and watch whatever DVDs Kristin had thoughtfully left lying around before she’d jetted off to Scotland. On Saturday one or the other of us would make the 20-minute drive to Ljubljana’s nearest skiing hill, Krvavec, and on Sunday the previous day’s babysitter would get their turn. Sunday evening we’d de-babyproof Kristin’s place, drop the loden-keys in her mailbox, and drive back to Nova Gorica.

I last saw Kristin in February in Switzerland. She’s since left southern Europe for one of its most northerly corners, but we stay in touch. Thanks Kristin!