Sand in my shoes

When I said once "season's just an attitude", I must admit I still had some reasons to polish to fully subscribe to that statement. Few weeks ago I decided to practically check how would it feel to practice summering, but in November.

It's been a very stolen time. Time, when I should've been other places. But responsibility and descipline were not my closest friends back then.

So we embarked on a plane, with a very short notice, and voilĂ  -- few hours later we felt back the not-so-forgotten late summer smell. Plus the Arab additions to it -- herbs, spices, palms and Egyptian desert dust. Which smells just like Egyptian desert dust.

Now it feels like this pulp that comes out of the blender, when you disproportionally add the silence of underwater cinematic meeting with dolphins, endless nights of swell chats on life's agenda and how we missfit it, the ride through the desert at sunset time using shemagh for a practical and not fashionate purpose, emotionally meeting a not-so-very-old-friend and then seeing together a falling star without an immediate wish for it, the parties set up by this gang of bash-minded Moscow-ers, and playing with the wind and a sail in our kiss-and-surf small reef bay.

Back home and yet unpacked, I still can feel this desert sand in my shoes. Won't clean it. It holds back the touch of the November summer week I've stolen...