On the corner right across the street is a typical Danish bodega, with its brown interior, regulars, and cheap bottles of Tuborg and Ceres Top (twenty kroner each). From the position in bed, one can hear the comings and goings, the conversations and arguments, making their way in through the window open ajar. Like the constant flow of a river, this makes one aware that the city is always in motion and alive, even if the interior of one’s apartment seems stable and one is caught in an internal mental world. Sometimes it wakes you up at night: a loud argument, a fight, a glass bottle breaking as it hits the asphalt or pavement. One rises from the bed, rolls up the blinds and looks at the spectacle from the window frame – alongside the other spectators popping their heads out of their windows.
At other times, I find myself on the other side of the window. I am the one sitting outside the bodega in the evening sun or chill, having conversations that roar down the canyon of the street, entering people’s living rooms, bedrooms, and, eventually, auditory canals.
Note: Because we sleep in what was supposed to be the living room and live in the supposed bedroom, the direct connection to the street and Boulevard Caféen is enhanced.