We should go down to that old pier. It’s probably rotting, but at least it isn't this godforsaken house. If we stay here, we’re going to end up staring at the wallpaper until we lose our minds. It reminds me of that time Sarah got a wasp stuck in her car—she was frantic, slamming the windows, just absolute chaos for no reason. We need to move. If we sit here too long, we’ll just become part of the furniture. Grab your coat. Or don't. Just tell me if you're coming.
The wallpaper isn't even that bad, Ivo. It’s just... tired. It’s like that one time in Brussels, when the hotel clerk insisted the tap water was fine, but you could taste the copper in every single sip. Everyone just nodded and drank it because they didn't want to be rude. That’s what we’re doing here.
And the pier? It’s too much walking for a Tuesday. Besides, the dampness will just make everything smell like wet wool. I'm not in the mood to be frantic like Sarah. If you want to go, go. But don't expect me to drag my coat through the mud just to satisfy your sudden need for scenery. I might just stay here and see if the silence actually settles.
Tuesday? Who cares what the hell day it is? You're acting like we have all the time in the world. And don't bring up Brussels, that clerk was a fool, but you were just as bad, nodding along like a damn doll. If you want to sit here and let the damp sink into your bones, fine. Stay. But don't complain when the silence gets too heavy to breathe. I’m not going to sit here waiting for you to decide to have a pulse. I'll go to the pier. If you want to be a laggard, be a laggard.
A laggard. You always go for the dramatic labels when you're impatient. It’s the same way you acted when we were stuck in that terminal in Lyon, pacing like a caged animal because the flight was delayed by nothing but a bit of fog. You think movement is the same thing as progress.
I didn't say I wasn't going to move, just that the pier sounds like a lot of effort for a lot of nothing. If the silence gets heavy, then let it. It’s better than that constant, restless tapping of your fingers on the wooden table. It's loud. Almost as loud as that old man in the cafe in Marseille who would whistle between every bite of bread. It was insufferable. Fine. I'll get my boots. Just stop being so... sharp.
Sharp? I'm just not interested in pretending everything is lovely when it’s clearly stagnant. If my tapping is too loud, then don't listen. And don't compare me to that whistling man—at least he had some rhythm to his nonsense. If you're getting your boots, then move. It's not a grand expedition; it's just a walk. You're making it sound like we're crossing the Alps. Honestly, if we spent half as much energy walking as we do talking about the logistics of it, we'd have been halfway there by now. Just put them on and let's go.
It’s the rhythm that makes it impossible to ignore, Ivo. That’s the problem. You want everything to have a beat, a purpose, or a destination.
I remember when my sister decided to redecorate her entire flat in a single weekend because she couldn't stand the "stagnancy" of her old curtains. She ended up with nothing but stacks of fabric and a house that smelled like turpentine for months. Nobody even wanted to visit because she was too busy being efficient.
I'm putting them on. But if the pier turns out to be just a pile of driftwood and old fishing nets, don't look at me with that expression. You're the one who insisted on this expedition. Just don't expect me to be breathless when we arrive.
Your sister was a fool, but at least she did something. Most people just sit around waiting for life to happen to them. And don't worry about my expression; if the pier is a pile of driftwood, at least it'll be different from this room. Everything here feels like it’s held together by nothing but habit. If you're too tired to be breathless, fine. Just walk. It’s the walking that matters, not how much you pant when we get there. Let’s just go before the light changes and you find another reason to argue about the humidity.
"Something" isn't always a virtue. My sister was exhausted, Ivo. She was perpetually exhausted, and her flat ended up looking like a showroom where nobody was allowed to sit down. She was so busy "doing" that she forgot how to actually live in the space. It's much the same with you.
The light isn't changing that quickly. You're acting as if the sun is about to set on our entire lives because the shadows moved a few inches. It’s just light. And the humidity is actually quite heavy—it clings. It reminds me of that garden in the south, the one where the air was so thick you felt like you were breathing through a damp linen sheet. We should go, before you decide the sheer act of stepping outside is too much of a logistical hurdle. Let's just move.
Your sister’s flat was probably a disaster, but at least she had the nerve to change things. This constanting defending of "stillness" is just an excuse for being indecisive. And don't lecture me about the light—it’s shifting, whether you like the aesthetics of it or not. If the air is thick, then we'll walk through it. It's better than the stale air in here that tastes like old books and indecision. If we're going to be breathing through linen sheets, let's do it outside. Stop talking about the logistics of living and just get out the door.
It wasn't just the books. It was the dust, too. Everything in this house feels like it's covered in a fine layer of something waiting to be wiped away. You're so eager to be anywhere else that you're practically running before we've even crossed the threshold.
It's the same with that cousin of mine, Julian. He used to insist on moving cities every time he got bored of the local grocer, as if a change of scenery would solve the fundamental problem of his personality. He'd arrive in a new place, unpack, and within a week, he'd be looking at the horizon again.
Fine. I have my boots on. Are you satisfied? You're hovering there like you're waiting for an ovation. Let's just go before you find something else to be restless about. The door is right there.
Julian sounded like a man who couldn't stand the sound of his own thoughts. If you're always looking at the horizon, you'll trip over the stones right in front of you. And don't act as if my eagerness is a performance; it's just energy. It's much better than your version of existing, which seems to be a slow descent into becoming a permanent resident of a chair. Yes, the boots are on. I'm satisfied. Now, enough with the family history and the constant comparisons to people we'll probably never see again. Let's go. The door isn't going to walk itself.
He didn't just look at the horizon, Ivo. He was a man who lived in the cracks of things, never actually landing. It's a lonely way to be, even if it looks like purpose to you. And you're so preoccupied with not being a permanent resident of a chair that you’re practically vibrating. It’s exhausting to watch.
You think that by moving, you're somehow escaping the weight of everything. But the weight follows you. It’s like that time the heavy trunk was lost at the docks; we spent three days without it, and even though we were lighter, the absence felt more substantial than the trunk ever was.
Fine. Stop pacing. If we're going to be done with this house, let's just step out. But don't expect me to lead the way just because you're ready to sprint.
Julian was a man who lived in the cracks, so he probably never had to deal with the weight of anything real. And don't you dare suggest we're escaping anything. We aren't running from anything; we're just walking. If the weight follows us, then we'll carry it to the pier. It's better to have it on the move than to let it sit on us like a shroud in this room. Stop with the heavy metaphors about trunks and docks. It’s enough. You have your boots on. The door is open. Are you coming or are you still weighing the pros and cons of the threshold?
The pros and cons are quite simple: the air outside is heavy, and the pier is far. But you've already decided that's worth it, haven't you? You always have a plan, even when it's just a plan to walk.
It’s the way you talk about the weight—as if it’s something you can just pick up and carry like a rucksack. That's the trouble with people like you. You think if you move fast enough, the baggage won't catch up. It’s like that man in the train station in Genoa, the one with the massive suitcases who walked so briskly he nearly knocked over the entire refreshment stand. He was so focused on the destination that he didn't even notice he'd lost his hat.
I'm coming. Don't act as if you're waiting for a signal. Just lead the way.
If he'd lost his hat, he should have noticed before he knocked over the refreshment stand. It’s not a failure of character to want to reach a destination. And it's not a rucksack, but you can't just let the baggage pile up until you're buried under it. That's the problem with your lot; you'd rather sit in the wreckage than move an inch to avoid the mess. If you're coming, then come. Stop standing there as if you're being ushered into a waiting carriage. You're already at the door. Let's go before the conversation becomes its own kind of weight.
"Your lot." As if there's a specific group of people who prefer to observe rather than collide with everything in their path. It’s just a different way of being, Ivo. Not everyone needs to be a human battering ram.
And a destination isn't a cure for a lost hat. You'll get to the pier, and you'll realize you've just traded one set of scenery for another, much saltier set. It’s like when my aunt tried to live in that seaside cottage; she thought the sea air would clear her head, but all it did was make her hair brittle and her mood even more erratic. She spent the whole time complaining about the gulls.
The door is open. We are moving. I am walking. There is no need to announce the departure as if we're embarking on a voyage of discovery. Keep your pace, but do try to stay on the path.
If your aunt was too busy complaining about gulls to enjoy the sea, that was her own damn business. Not everyone needs to be a battering ram, but not everyone needs to be a statue either. You're acting as if a bit of salt air is a personal affront. And don't talk about trading one scenery for another—it's a pier, for God's sake, not a change in the fabric of the universe. If we're walking, then let's just walk. Stop trying to turn every footstep into a philosophical debate about the nature of existence. The path is right there. Keep up.
It’s not an affront, it’s just... inevitable. The salt gets into everything. It gets into the hinges, into the wood, into your very clothes.
You act as if we’re making some profound statement by stepping outside. It’s just a path, Ivo. A dirt path with some pebbles. But you'll probably find a way to make the pebbles a metaphor for something else by the time we reach the water.
It’s funny, though. You’re so insistent on the "getting there" that you’re already looking past me, looking at the next bend, the next tree. You’re halfway there already. It’s much like that time we were waiting for the ferry in Dubrovnik, when you were so busy checking the tide tables that you nearly missed the boat actually pulling into the harbor. You're walking, but you aren't really here. Now, let's just go.
I wasn't nearly missing the boat in Dubrovnik; the tide table was the only thing actually making a decision, unlike us. And if looking at the path ahead makes me "halfway there," then at least I'm not staring at the ground waiting for it to swallow me whole. You can call it a metaphor if it makes the walk feel more heavy-handed, but it's just a walk. If I'm looking at the next bend, it's because the path is actually moving forward. Stop analyzing my focus and just keep the pace. Let's go. The door is behind us.
The tide tables didn't make the decision, Ivo; the captain did. You were just looking at the paper. And staring at the ground isn't a sin—it's how you avoid tripping over those very stones you're so eager to encounter.
You have this way of being so focused on the "forward" that you treat the present like a nuisance to be overcome. It’s as if you think the destination is the only part of the journey that counts. It’s like when we went to that museum in Vienna, and you wanted to sprint through the galleries just to say we'd seen the masterpieces. You saw the paintings, but you didn't really see them. You just saw the exit.
Fine. The door is behind us. The path is under us. Let's just walk. But if the wind picks up and smells like old fish, don't expect me to say it's refreshing.
The captain certainly made the decisions, but you were the one standing there like a tourist lost in the fog. And the paintings in Vienna were fine, but we couldn't stay there forever, could we? To you, a museum is a graveyard of things meant to be looked at, but to me, it's just a place with walls. If the wind smells like old fish, then it smells like old fish. It’s not a tragedy. It's just the reality of being near the water. Now, keep your head up. If we focus too much on the scent, we'll miss the actual view.
A graveyard of things... that's a bit much, isn't it? It’s just art. It doesn't need us to stand there and worship it to exist. And you weren't lost in the fog in Dubrovnik; you were just waiting for the world to catch up to your schedule.
If the wind smells like old fish, it’s because we’re near the sea. It’s not a cosmic riddle to be solved. It’s just the smell of things decomposing or being caught. You're so worried about missing the "view" that you're treating the walk like a checklist of sights to be ticked off.
It reminds me of that gardener in the valley, the one who spent so much time perfecting the hedges that he forgot to plant any flowers. He had these perfect, geometric lines, but nothing actually grew in them. Let's just walk. We'll see the pier when we see it.