Just For the Story

I have never been one of those people who remembered events years after they had occurred. Yet I was very determined to make my New York trip a memorable one, even if it meant taking a lot of unsuccessful selfies, jotting down every single thing I did and walking 12 hours a day in freezing cold. (Hint: It did.)

After ten days of thermal clothing and frequently getting lost, I headed to Brooklyn. I had to go and check a flea record fair out, soak hipsterville into my lungs, and find a couple of vinyls if I were lucky.

Bam. Keith Jarrett Köln Concert. Bam. Marvin Gaye Let’s Get It On. Bam. 4 dollars each. I left the fair with a huge smile on my face, and that kept me going the whole day, even though I am not sure if was the happiness of having money well spent or my face muscles being frozen.

Right across the flea market I saw this sticker on the wall: “Everything in its own time”. I thought about the things I wanted, things I worked for, people I had a crush on. Maybe I am pushing things too hard, I thought, maybe I am forcing myself to do a lot at the same time. This was not a "message from the universe” telling me to slow down nor another cliché epiphany. It was just that, the writing on the wall somehow added to the glee of that moment.

A man passing by pointed at Gaye: “Great album!” I smiled in response and started heading towards Radegast Hall & Biergarten to please my voracious appetite for Belgian beers. On my way it started snowing, multiplying the joy. It was an unperturbed snow; lingered in the air before settling on my hat. Covering Keith and Marvin under my scarf, I finally found Radegast Hall, right after chatting with another random person who, this time, talked about Jarrett with considerable enthusiasm.

Still ecstatic about the vinyls, also about the brass band playing at that beer house, I took a sip from my Tripel Karmeliet and thought: “everything in its own time”. Of course. It was not an aphorism for “slowing down”, it was just a reminder that it didn't really matter if I remembered that moment ten years from now or not. What counts is that jouissance of the instant: Talking to a stranger about your favourite artist, snow tickling your nose in a city not of your own, drinking beer in a different currency.

I figured, well, I love traveling, and I definitely love writing, but that precise moment is difficult to repeat, and there is no point in returning to it. Just enjoy it. And the beer.