sep 09.

i was in town so they asked me and sure. today, i've been ghostwriting a speech for belgium diplomate xxx who is giving a small private lecture at guggenheim on european culture prior 1985. in the background, of course, is the museum. my family have endorsed substancial fundings over the years so it was an honour to finally meet juan ignacio vidarte and alicia martinez.

in the kitchen in my home in genève i have a framed picture of my father and i together with antonio milososki when antonio and i were boys. antonio always talked about buildings and the great german architect mies van der rohe. today antonio is minister of foreign affairs in my home country the republic of macedonia and he has been in my thoughts today looking out at this spectacular building from the terrace of the hotel.

embassies have apartments all over the world and sublet them to hvomever is on a contract. since it’s now owned by local businessmen i think i can reveal that i lived in this building in the late 90’s. neighbours was friendly, mostly other consulate people or foreign attachés. henry kissinger, former us-foreign minister, stayed here in the 80’s and in the reception, behind a glasswindow, there was gifts and memorabilias he had left or forgotten. it always impressed first-time visitors and i remember a watch/camel from ghadaffi with inscription. there was a handwritten note from ismelda marcos to kissingers wife, a sixfoot mirror from chief something of burkino faso and a painting from a former highranked soviet official my family also knew.

back then the building was guarded but today you can walk right in and when i’m in town – this is in south-eastern europe - i sometimes walk by. it was a nice place but i don’t miss it. the sound of gunfire is still with me from those days.

outside liège. a gasstation i always pass on my way to friends alicia and jack. they work at an embassy close by and are close friends today after we spent two weeks in a train thru europe as part of an international litterature festival. i remember the hungarian minister of transportation pal szabo reading - very load and in the morning in grenoble - his quite moderate - in fact - poetry.

oh dear. people were enjoying themselves.

DDR is watching. look at this tower in old estberlin. i was there giving a lecture on carcrashes in european film after 76 - think german - at the open university of berlin and i got lost in kreutzberg. all i could see was rails. rails on end.

after some time i found the right train back. the same actually. it runs in a circle thru berlin but how could i have known? it's a speciality of mine - getting lost in european cities. ask anybody.

diesen zug fahren durch die stadt! said the conductor out loud. weisen diesen toristen aber nichts!?

he was turkish and spoke deutch sehr schlecht but i didn't reply. why would i?

more spain. this is the courtyard where i eat my breakfast each morning. i read the papers, la meuse, le temps, herald tribune, el pais and the local el correo.

bilbao is full of life, it really is and the architecture is outstanding. especielly the minor finance-district on the banks of nervión. the few highrisers look so out of place that they fit right in. odd indeed.

i'm not much of a swimmer. i didn't grow up around water. but who can refuse this pool? it's a bit of an international pool, really. many foreigners hang out here. from italy, england, denmark or greece.

this bull in particular mark my arrivel at pais vasco. or euskadi as some like to refer it as. well. i'm originally from macedonia and so i call it north spain. it's a long train ride from genève, you change train in the pyrenees because spain has smaller rails than france (silly but very romantic) and i often think of hemingways green hills of kilimanjaro on this trip which takes a full day and its funny cause. the scenery looks like the ardennes - around verviers - where i often drive thru. hilly, very green and then theres the rain which comes and goes every 20 min. it sometimes seems.

but the climate here. it's like a warm cloth around your body and i get to write on my little terrace on the northhills of bilbao, where i stay at a small pension run by an old woman. she lost her husband a long time ago and won't talk about it. his picture is on the wall behind the reception. the medals laid out and every morning the coffee is on a small tray outside my door.

i could just live here, i always think.