For the last time this year: Dublin-Berlin. Outside it is already too dark to catch a glimpse down to the village of mine. Queen Cat stays with the vet. The grocer’s wife hands over an enormous package of mince pies. The grocer cuts Christmas trees and is disappointed that I don’t intend to take one with me. The priest is running up and down the village because the church will be soon in the hands of the grocer’s wife and her circle of trustees, who will decorate St Sylvester, the tiny church of ours. Last year they wanted to bring in a sheep, which made quite sense to me, because there are more sheep the men in the village anyway. But the priest strictly refused. K. will look of after the house. J. drives me to the airport and we giggle about all the people wearing reindeer antlers. We will miss you, he says and I say: I will miss you too, and I mean it.
The plane is full to its last seat. They are playing Driving home for Christmas and I doubt it has an ironic meaning. Next to me sits an businessman, and even before all the people have crammed their outrageous amount of hand luggage into the overhead bins, he has opened his notebook and starts to watch a movie. He is not even the slightest bit irritated when JoannaCaitlinMarcandMáirín explain to us how to save or lives and souls but puts on enormous headphones that make him look like an alien and proceeds with his movie. The story seems to be quite simple: many women, to me all looking excatly the same enter a room, where they sit down on a chair, then a killer squad arrives and beheads them. Well, what to say? But truly irritating it seems at least to me that the businessman first starts to giggle shyly, but the longer he watches the movie, the louder he laughs and so explicitly enjoys the scenes of women losing their heads that he claps with his hands before he bursts out in even louder laughter. He can hardly take his eyes away even when JoannaCaitlinMarcandMáirín announce that we have arrived at our destination. Later, I see him again waiting for his luggage, with a most serious face, as he reads the Wall Street Journal.
On the train drunken men are kicking a Tequila bottle through the wagon. The air smells outworn and I yawn . At home I open all the windows to let in fresh air and forget that I can’t smell the sea as I can do in a small village, somewhere in Ireland, where late at night the grocer’s wife makes mince-pie and the priest thinks about the sermon and the sheep laugh about us all.