Spring, spring, spring. That is to say, bittersweetness, restlessness, and more than anything, wanderlust.
It's time to go again. I have one month's rent left to pay, I've lost my sweet heavy too-long days in the theatre to professional technicians, I should be sending books back and going over everything (again).
It's been a spring of many chants and banners, petitions and police helicopters over the campus, free hot chocolate and fiery voices reverberating the stone walls of the cloisters. At least we'll go down fighting.
"Education for the masses - not just for the ruling classes!"
Spring came early, this picture is from Valentine's Day. Tonight there was a heavy wind tugging at my rainbow-coloured umbrella that someone else had left in the backyard with the rubbish. Yesterday I went there and there was a big, wild, fox-coloured cat, climbing over the high fences. The blooming trees are already scattering their petals all around.
Next year is a game: Strasbourg, Poitiers, Nice, other. Blind-folded, I wait for my fate.
Tomorrow we'll catch a plane to Morocco. To the snake charmers, spice sellers and orange trees of Marrakesh. I have never travelled outside of Europe before. I don't actually believe that we're going.
(And my springheart is already dreaming up more: lazy days in Saaremaa, fox bones, stubborn rams and owls on traffic signs. And in the ancient forest shared by Poland and Belarus, wisents and named oak trees.)