232 unread mails when I opened my Outlook, no big surprise there. But I tackled them all, occasionally interrupted by colleagues asking me about my trip. Quite a pleasant day actually, as my boss is on holiday herself until Monday, and summer time is traditionally a calmer period. I even managed to get some actual tasks done on top of catching up on my e-mail. I'm taking advantage of the calm tomorrow too, when my boss returns I'm sure there will be a storm of work flying my way

Other to-dos:
- processing my travel photos (850 of them, woohoo...)
- planning dinner for a couple of friends Saturday
- doing mountains of laundry (my suitcase is still unopened)
- general house cleaning and organizing...

Oh yeah, I also shouldn't forget:
- cuddling our cat who is craving attention
- enjoying the happy feeling of stepping on the scales and realizing I have lost 3 pounds (despite eating a lot on our travels, especially fried food and desserts)
- reading (rediscovering my love of books/literature and wondering why I didn't make time for it sooner)

Not going to be bored any time soon

Thanks for the comments on my previous blog

Back home since a few hours, the holiday is over...

On the plus side:

- brought back a lot of 'booze': two bottles of red wine, two bottles of white wine, a bottle of eiswein, six bottles of port wine (three of which as presents) and two bottles of liqueur. Irony: we don't even drink a lot, we just like having a lot of different drinks at our disposal when the occasional mood for a tipple strikes us...

- no more tropical temperatures! Note to self: never ever go on holiday in the middle of summer, certainly not to the south of Europe

- hundreds and hundreds of pictures to process... It wasn't as photogenic as my previous travels, but there should be some nice ones nevertheless.

But tomorrow will be rough, back to work after three and a half weeks: undoubtedly a few hundred unread mails and I have to get up at 6 AM...

I received news that I'm one of the ten 'laureats' of a literary competition. I didn't receive the big prize of first place, but the texts of the laureats will be published: I'm becoming a published writer, yay even if it is with a very short text - one page - happy camper here!

After Bordeaux and Salamanca: Tomar (wedding of a friend), Lisbon, Porto and now Galicia in Spain. Buckets of sweat so far and tons of pictures. After oodles of churches, convents and castles, it's finally time for the hiking/nature part of our trip now, yippie

I'm in Salamanca now, after spending a day in Bordeaux. No sunburn yet, but buckets of sweat as it's thirty degrees... Two very pleasant cities though!

After a few months, John feels at home in the old ice factory, which in bygone days used to supply the ice boxes of the city. He knows the old-fashioned ammonia cooling installation inside out. When he sleeps, the rhythmic creaks and groans of the machinery echo in his dreams, guiding him.
In the workshop, the worn surface of the oak table smiles at him with a familiar face. The series of instruments on the table no longer frightens him. He even has his own toolkit, given to him by Genevieve after finishing his first sculpture. What’s more, he no longer complains about the single yet inescapable rule of his mistress of apprenticeship: ice should be touched and worked with bare hands.
He enjoys sculpting at her side, around this shared table. When she hums and murmurs as she works, nothing exists except the ice and an unknown ache inside him is soothed.
He nevertheless vaguely senses that something is missing.

---

One evening, as John enters, he wonders if the air-conditioning has broken down, as it’s warm in the shop. Genevieve greets him with a knowing smile.
“I hope you’re on form today. I’m going to teach you the essence of ice sculpting.”
“Will you show me how to make the ice come alive? I want my sculptures to breathe and burst with life.”
“You already know how, John. With some practice, you’ll even surpass me. No, I’ve already taught you everything about the birth and life of the ice. Now it is time to discover its death. It’s the real reason why you came to me.”

With these words, Genevieve lowers the shutters. Through the slits, the setting sun draws orange bands on the walls. She lights a few candles on the table where a miniature mountain range rests and invites John to sit next to her on the ground. They lean against the wall, side by side.
“A real ice sculptor must fall in love with the ephemeral. Tonight we will watch this sculpture melt until it disappears.”
She takes his hand.

In a few hours, millions of earth years pass by. As mountains peaks, glistening in the darkness, transform into rolling hills, John discovers Genevieve’s body with his trembling hands. There is a melancholy gleam in her eyes that he hasn’t seen before.
The drops of water falling to the floor are as many tears shed for life.

Only a few more days: Monday we're leaving for more than three weeks! A friend of mine is getting married in Portugal, so we thought we'd combine the wedding with a roadtrip in Portugal and the north of Spain. Only downside: I don't tolerate heat very well and, with my fair complexion, I burn soooo easily... (But hey, I didn't choose my friends wedding date, in the middle of summer )

Hat and sun screen, here I come

He looks at his palms before placing them on the block of ice. Little by little, he feels the cold penetrate the skin of his hands, the muscles, the bones. And transform itself into a growing ache rising up to his heart. Genevieve sees John’s body tensing up.
“Just a little while longer, it’s almost over.”
In vain, he looks around for a clock on the wall to count down the seconds. The pain, which has now taken a hold of his body entirely, sharpens itself into a piercing ray of light. He feels transparent, like a shard of glass caught by the sun. Just when he thinks he can’t endure any more, when it seems his flesh is about to shatter, the pain softens abruptly and a glowing warmth dawns at his fingertips.
He is no longer a random fragment of glass, he is now a perfect prism splitting the light into a cascade of unknown colors whirling before his eyes. Through this dance of colors, ancient landscapes reveal themselves: snow-covered mountains, impenetrable forests, oceans breaking apart on wild beaches. An essence of life springs from the ice, an energy that bewilders him.
Eyes wide open, he looks up at Genevieve. She simply smiles at him and places her hands on his. This is how, on her forty-seventh birthday, a day which started out quite ordinary, she becomes mistress of an apprentice for the first time.

---

From that day onwards, Genevieve receives John in her workshop each evening. First, she speaks to him at length and shows him the techniques and finesses of ice sculpting. He drinks in each word and studies each move with the same unwavering attention.
Then, she reverses the roles and watches him as he tries to create his first sculpture. After scarcely an hour, she is sure of his talent, but she says nothing.
On several occasions, John catches her watching him with a singular intensity. What disconcerts him is that she doesn’t look away.

A sign I should start working out again: my lower back is sore after hanging up washing and folding a whole pile of washed clothes yesterday.

Yes, I know, pathetic

A magnetism takes control of him, pulling him towards the door. The copper handle is cold to the touch. He wishes he could hold onto it forever because he feels light, on the verge of floating away like an autumn leaf.
When the door opens and triggers a bell, it stirs a hidden childhood memory within him. He has returned to his parents’ bric-a-brac store. Despite the oppressive summer heat that pervades the shop, hope surges each time the door bell rings. More than anything, even more than a cool breeze, he longs for an escape from his boredom, the torpor turning his thoughts to black. His attempts to escape the merry-go-round of dark thoughts fail, however. Even his favorite book is powerless surrounded by these musty objects, whose owners have long since disappeared and whose lifeless smells seep into him with each breath. Does life exist at his fingertips?

Before discreetly clearing her throat, Genevieve frowns and studies the dreamy intruder. John blinks, his memory dissipating, and shivers in spite of himself. He nevertheless remains silent after this awakening: the array of instruments exposed on the table has caught his eye and troubles him, though he doesn’t understand why.
Faced with this taciturn customer, the sculptress is about to present her portfolio when, at last, he speaks: “That won’t be necessary, ma’am, I’m not here to order a sculpture. I want to become your apprentice.”
She starts to answer that she doesn’t give classes, that she’s never wanted an apprentice, but changes her mind mid-sentence. While listening to her reply, John, for the first time since entering the shop, looks her in the eye. And in those brown eyes, she catches a glimpse of the man laid bare. Concealed behind this lost adolescent, she discovers a melancholy strength and a deep pursuit of sense end sensation, which move her.
“Alright, I will teach you my craft, on two conditions. You will call me Genevieve, not ma’am, we are on equal footing in my work shop. But first, you must pass an ordeal, a challenge. You will place your bare hands on the ice for five minutes, without interruption.”
John nods, seemingly impassive, but a nervous movement of his fingers betrays him.