Friday, February 12, 2016

Balcony Introspective

It feels later than it is. My body is worn out, pretty much everything hurts. It's been a long day, crazy busy. I'm in San Antonio working a trade show. I'm staying with two other ladies, and they accidentally booked us a room with a single king, so we got upgraded to a suite with a king and they comped us a rollaway bed.

I've never been upgraded to a suite before, much less booked one. It's crazy big, in this great old hotel that used to be bank. When you walk into the room, which almost certainly used to be an office, you take an immediate right down a long hallway. There's the bathroom to the left--a ridiculously huge thing with a jacuzzi tub big enough for a party, a shower with two shower heads across from each other, the biggest vanity ever to only hold one sink, and you can't get anywhere without having to make a trek.

Past the bathroom is the bedroom, with its King, a flatscreen, and a chair.

If you continue down the hall, you get to my room. The living room. The lounge. The perfect spot for my rollaway (although it would've easily fit in the massive entry hall). A couch, two chairs, a table with two more chairs.

But the balcony. Oh man. Easily four times the size of the balcony I had at my apartment. I have the perfect view of the San Fernando cathedral. Directly below me is the River Walk. 

I've been sitting out here for two hours now. I've watched people meander through the courtyard in front of the cathedral, stop to take photos. I've seen a horse drawn carriage, all lit up with tiny lights, clip-clop steadily down the street, between the cars, which make up a spaced out but steadyily moving procession.

On the rooftop adjacent to me, two adults and two children are dancing. The rooftop is a restaurant and bar, but it is closed, and these four have the space to themselves. I'll never meet them, almost certainly, and yet in a way we are sharing this moment together. We all are, the city and me.

I've heard honks, and shouts, and laughter. Music. From restaurants below, and bars. The soft hum of countless tires on concrete. The heartbeat. The sounds that are so easy to tune out on a day like today, hectic and draining. The kind of day where my mind and body are tired and I never even wanted to come out on the balcony in the first place.

But now, here I am. And I don't want to go back inside. Going back inside means letting this day come to a close. One more day gone by. It's quiet, introspective moments like this that I find myself wondering how many more moments like this I could've had—could've made, could've stolen for myself if I weren't so caught up in "Busy". In "Too Much To Do". In "Too Tired".

But it's beautiful, isn't it?

These moments, however fleeting, when we are alone yet surrounded by people. At ease, perhaps sitting in the shadows, watching the world and marveling at our place in it. The significance we ascribe to our lives, even as we acknowledge its relative insignificance. 

We are all one in a million, and one of a million simultaneously.

What a marvelous thing.

Goodnight, San Antonio. I look forward to our next quiet moment together.

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