Today’s daily prompt: A genie has granted your wish to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?
When I first read this, I couldn’t help but think that, with a few basic essentials, I could pretty much write in any kind of space. For me, inspiration comes from a sense of place (eg: a sense of culture, a feeling), more than my immediate space (eg: the immediate aesthetics or locational coordinates). So, this genie would grant me a year of writing rooms throughout the world. In tow I would have a few clothes, some books, laptop (consistent internet access), tons of music (and speakers/headphones), a camera. Pens, pencils, notebooks (obviously). With these things, and somewhere (clean and warm) to eat/bathe/sleep, I could be almost anywhere.
My first stop is a hotel in Paros (Greece), a sparse, white-walled open air bedroom with a huge, arched window overlooking the Mediterranean. The room itself would not have to be very large, so long as it had plenty of natural light and the window opened to the warm ocean breezes. A comfortable bed, a small writing desk, a comfy chair, a clawfoot bathtub. Every day, I would roam the country roads and swim on the beach. In the evenings, I’d eat olives and drink wine at the local beach bar (even if it is a little touristy).
My second stop: Paris (it might seem too obvious, but I could not resist). This would be the quintessential Paris hotel room, a teeny, narrow, old, slightly stuffy room in a pension. It must have a balcony, and a view of the narrow, odd-angled streets. It would have a teeny, ugly old couch, the kind where the springs dig into your butt if you sit on it too long – which is OK because it’s really cool (it’s vintage, pea-green velour). The bed is small, and the bedspread definitely involves brown flowers.
What makes up for the fact that the bathroom is shared is that at the bakery below the hotel, the-most-amazing-croissants-in-the-world are made, and I eat one every day for breakfast. The maid would be cranky at first, but she’d come every day, and she’d warm up as she understood that I tipped her well. I would be so thankful to come home to a clean room after a long day of meandering in museums, and photographing and interviewing anyone who looks interesting (because, you know, the genie would also grant me the ability to suddenly speak fluent French).
My third stop: Old Havana, where the walls are peeling and textured, leaking out layers upon layers of mysterious history. Oh to roam the streets and soak up the warmth of the music, watch old men playing chess in the park, take photos of castles and fortresses. Revel in the colors, the building-shapes and textures. Walk along the ocean, find cats in narrow alleys.
Rum! Cars! Cigars!
Oh, I haven’t described my room yet (I got a little excited). Well, so long as it had a fan/A/C, a half decent bed and hot water, I really wouldn’t care. A bar/restaurant downstairs, yes, that would have to happen.
The room is not important, but the hotel would come with a hot man that is ready to teach me Spanish and take me out dancing every night. He’d introduce me to some local icons, some friends of his, bring me to the secret music and dance hotspots. So, he’d generally be at my beck and call, keep me company and teach me everything there is to know about the culture without expecting anything in return. Is that too much to ask? 😉
So those are my first three stops..where to next? There would be so much more to this, stories and experiences (that weren’t all pretty) that would spring from each moment, walk, person, store, bar, stop.
Oh, and a bonus of staying in a succession of hotels: daily housekeeping! A year off of cleaning sheets, of washing floors and vacuuming. That would allow time for much more writing.
Well, just imagining this was as close to the dream that I’m going to get to for now, and I have to say that it’s been pretty fun.