The Foreign Correspondents Club is full of foreigners and empty of correspondents, as always. No hobnobbing journalists expounding on the days events, no reporters revising their stories, no photographers discussing recent shots. In fact, the only person doing any correspondence at all is a young woman writing in a spiral notebook at a candlelit table on the veranda, and even she seems more interested in her glass of white wine than her journal. It’s 5:30, Happy Hour a quarter-finished, and the wait staff have just turned on the soft-yellow wall lamps. The wooden-louver doors of the second-floor lounge are open on both sides, allowing the gentle evening breeze to filter in, joining the ceiling fans in swirling the lively conversation and cigarette smoke about the room. From the veranda, one can see the river and the tangle of Christmas lights in the riverside trees, hung rather haphazardly and left over from the water festival several months ago. They are tacky and beautiful at the same time, fitting perhaps in this town, struggling to modernize and exhibit its rich, ancient history simultaneously.
“There is no fun in a thorough understanding of any subject. A domain that naturally contains more mystery than is solvable on any given day, like fishing, is very enjoyable. Such mystery overflows itself.” --Scott Bowen
2 comments:
love it!
mopsy
Still waiting on my vignette "the belligerant Irish drunk" :o)
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