Rain, finally a reason to go somewhere on vacation. A reason to leave
the city. To demonstrate her that it still works without her, there are
others, other cities where other mothers live, who also have beautiful
daughters. Seville or Cadiz or even further down south. In a country far
away where it does not rain through the ceiling. All of Europe is
buried in snow, from Berlin to Majorca. Snow, that is already melted
when it gets here and makes you wet. Wet like a dog. The apartment wet,
everything wet, even the Internet wet, because in Lisbon, the world
hangs in long wires that go from one house to another. Lisbon is ugly
when it is wet. Praça do Comércio ugly, the bridge ugly, even the
beautiful lady from the copy shop ugly. People hide inside, behind thick
walls, in the privacy of their homes, in thick turtlenecks, as far as
possible, until they feel sick, because they have arrived inside and
start thinking about things people do not think about when the sun is
constantly shining into their faces. Lost love, forgotten friends, new
goals. Sounds like a song of Onkelz! Anyway, Lisbon was feeling
a little too save, had its makeup peed away by the rain, did not dress
up for the night anymore, because everybody is coming anyway, even when
it rains. The sunniest city of Europe with 2,800 hours of sun per year
is buried, behind Valletta (it is an island though) and Marseille (it is
a lie), in rain, but basks in the statistics. [...]
Ausszug aus Briefe aus Lissabon (erscheint 2019)
Original