Ahead of me, as I am lost in thought on Oppelner Strasse, a boy in a grey military greatcoat, with a felt 19th century infantryman’s hat on his head. I am torn between walking and seeing if the light has changed in Sofia.
In the interior it is as still as a Hopper painting. The café’s various inhabitants, transfixed by the light, looking out of the window, waiting for something to happen.
Two weeks without photographs, the only option to describe what I see.
It is happening. The final curtain call of Autumn, winter comes with its crisp light.
At this moment, at 4p.m, in Sofia, Friday 7th of December, I can barely tear myself away from it to write. The Ristorante bei Cilo glows a dull autumnal green on the corner of Wrangel Strasse. Soauer Strasse, a canyon of 19th Century appartments in various states of dereliction and rennovation is illuminated at dusk, glowing orange against a watery sky on a harsh Autumn day.
Nothing has changed. The same collection of mismatched second hand furniture, transformed in the late afternoon sun. A signifier of the ordinary, the constant, the warmth of the surrogate Wöhnzimmer.
The picture that the window frames barely moves, the wind is still. The air is cold and people come in from the street blowing on their hands. I exchange pleasantries with Hanno and station myself at the chair by the window. Trying to describe what I see, to be in the moment.
The light is like fire.