December 2008

[Sweder]

It looks as though running opportunities will pass unrequited on this trip. Last night I missed out on a visit to the celebrated Figuera, a famous Sao Paulo dining house known best by the live fig tree growing at its heart. Instead I sweated up a storm in the plush confines of my room, downing a couple of bowls of chicken soup and little else whilst the fanatical Brazilian commentators - on a show called Propaganda - raged about the impending season denoument, with SPFC very much in the thick of the title challenge. They could have snatched victory last Sunday but nerves got the better of them, stumbling instead to a tame draw. In some ways I'm glad it held over until this weekend as I'll be safely out of here before the wheels truly come off, whichever way Lady Luck decides to cast her favour.

I'll head home at the end of the week via Miami where I'm hoping to tajke advantage of a 24 hour stop-over to soak up some sun and, wheezing chest permitting, plod along the shoreline for a mile or two. If not I may just get to finish my latest journey with Haruki Murakami on that endless Atlantic beach. I picked up a copy of After Dark, an eerie novella by the author of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. His same easy style is evident, as is his unerring eye for detail. This reminds me of my early encounters with Ian Fleming where the Great Man appeared to take perverse pleasure in describing every facet of a scene. Murakami exceeds Fleming in many ways, not least in his ability to seduce the reader into his gently hypnotic world. You accept his indulgences without complaint, so effortless is his manner. There's no anxiety for the reveal despite teasing glimpses into dark corners of the tale, no uncomfortable raising of the pulse as the carefully woven threads combine to create the story's tapestry, rather a warm embrace for each new chapter as the characters grow and blossom and the journey meanders towards it's inevitably outlandish conclusion.
Great stuff.