Bare legs under a dress. The itch of grass touching skin.  The way it feels to be in a city where you have absolutely no sense of direction or context, except perhaps a ten-year-old memory that is mostly hidden by the cobwebs of the mind and characterized, when it does glint, by the utterly mundane.  What a long, straight road looks like.  That a little bit of height, in a country such as this, gives you more perspective than you think you deserve.  Lots of people in a tiny kitchen.  That the garden, though it may have slept through winter, needs tending again.  The importance of a good book.  A bath, a trashy magazine, wet fingerprints left all over the celebrities’ faces.  How wild and fickle a strong wind can make you.