On the positive side, I may have the opportunity to go to China pending the status of my wife's possible business trip; I mentioned it to my boss who said I'd likely be bored if I stay for more than a few days, and I'm thinking he's right. Can't speak the language, which is a real drawback, and my wife will be working all day. Still, the opportunity for that sort of adventure is once in a lifetime and it seems a no-brainer. It's one thing to miss Amsterdam, it's another to miss Red China. My boss reports that it's a whole country of spoiled children due to the one-child rule, since the parents treat their one kid like royalty.
Have that yearning to breathe novels again. It's so nice to read a book (the Arthur Philips novel Prague) that is lyrical without being depressing, a seemingly rare combo. I highlight passages that strike me as poetic and induce the sort of gentle fugue of relaxation:
"...to jog over the guidebook bridges and along the parapets and paths that run alongside the Blue Danube, which was this morning, as always, the deep cerulean Matisse blue of caramel or mahogany."Or:
"The Chain Bridge's lights have painted its pocked stone bricks a soft yellow and Emily's hair a dark gold, and the river stops flowing for John to memorize it, to count the blue and white lights sprinkled over the roll of its immobile waves..."Or
"A walk to the door, a mouthful of summer night, and, at the mere sight of her, a taxi sprouts from the ground and opens to embrace her."Or
"...the plump iron leaves, the graceful metal ivy, even the brittle metal twigs were still solid."