Diary Entry for a Perfect Spring Day – The American Spectator | USA News and PoliticsThe American Spectator

I woke up at five in the morning. The rooster in this village is broken and crows at four, so spending a few days here feels like an eternal hangover. If you have to get up, it’s better to do it with energy. That’s what I think, at least. And that’s how I ended up splitting my eyebrow against the slanted loft ceiling, so low on the west side of the bed that its rafters could decapitate all seven dwarves.

As for Snow White, I don’t think she’s getting out of bed without a prince, and the last one who passed through here got beheaded during the age of enlightenment. Faced with an unexpected blow, a journalist always goes on the defensive, so I opted to crawl back into bed, sob uncontrollably, and assess the damage. The rooster insists, again. Suddenly, I decided that today’s lunch would be chicken soup. Let’s see if leaving it widowed makes it sad enough to stop crowing. (RELATED: After ‘Snow White,’ a Chance to Replace Hollywoke)

The spring sun streams through the windows with just the right intensity to awaken all my allergies at once. I can’t find my sunglasses. And between sneeze and sneeze, I can’t locate a damn tissue either. With watery eyes, I can’t find my slippers. Barefoot, feeling my way across the unfamiliar bedroom floor, lots of things tickle me, and I’m not sure they’re all dead. I decide to stomp cheerfully to scare them off, and for a moment, I realize I’m an idiot dancing flamenco in my underwear with a bump on my head the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. “Spanish Gibraltar!” I tell myself. And I hurl myself down the stairs. My mind is dying for a coffee.

Last night, I did such a great job putting out the fire before bed that even now, the whole living room is warm. Though maybe the armchair by the fireplace is a bit too warm. I mean, one might consider it embers at this point.

To make coffee, they explained yesterday that I had to hold the coffee grinder’s plug in place with one hand, press the button with the other, and with a third hand, press down hard on the lid. The problem is, the math with the hands doesn’t add up. I finally managed to grind it using my chin, which was almost a good idea, seeing as it doesn’t look like I’ll need to shave for a while.

I love the smell of coffee. And the day is gorgeous. I just saw a rabbit hopping around the garden, so white it looks like it was just pulled out of a magician’s hat. There’s a certain melancholy in its gaze. I watch it and acknowledge its drama, too. The hare sprints. The lynx is a lynx. But the white, bouncy rabbit is probably the girliest animal in nature. It doesn’t have the glovebox or electric windows of an Australian kangaroo, nor the elegant charm of a great egret. The rabbit is a warm-blooded stuffed toy that only evokes tenderness with that nervous nose-twitching — you never know if it’s struck gold or if its whiskers are just tickling it.

Countryside coffee smells better than it tastes. But you accept that you’re in the sticks for these little discomforts. It has its charm. If someone decided to open one of those trendy coffee shops here, selling coffee at seafood prices, it’d be as successful as those frozen yogurt stores that open and close worldwide every three months.

On the other hand, the homemade muffins are delicious. Without preservatives, after a night in the open air, you could use them to fend off burglars. If you’ve got good aim and they line up, one hardened muffin could take off three of their heads.

They say the shower here is only for the brave. But I don’t get those people who don’t wash because they’re in the countryside and they’re only going to get dirty again. That’s how a lot of our politicians got started.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt if a plumber checked the water heater. The inconsistent jets seem to follow the whims of a drunk firefighter, and the wild temperature swings sting. I have a friend who goes to a fancy spa to get blasted with hot and cold water from two hoses because he says it’s good for circulation, but I’d personally rather have my blood like hot chocolate than go through that torture.

The key to a perfect shower in a country house is timing the moment when the jet comes out with the most pressure. From what I’ve calculated, this happens every two minutes and forty-seven seconds and lasts for thirty seconds. The trick is to soap up fast enough during the trickle and rinse off during the gush. I’m thankful I have reasonably short hair.

It’s early, and the sun’s out. Countryside schedules work fine for country folk, but they’re too extreme for city boys. And the air’s too pure — I struggle to breathe without help from a cigarette. I set up a dehumidifier that works well but is a sneaky bastard: if you put it by the table at dinner, it dries out the wine bottle before tackling the floor humidity, which was what you asked it to do. The upside is that after four or five days, you end up with a tank full of summer red wine.

The day drags on lazily. A morning walk makes me feel young and even a tad eco-friendly. I think I could recycle myself right now.

For a while, the goldfinches fill me with joy, and I’m on the verge of going anti-nuclear. But that led me to walk too far, and now, on the way back home with sore muscles, bug bites, and a bump, all I can think about is how many hours are left until I can crawl back into bed. (RELATED: Leisure for Thought)

Life status: I’ve already experienced absolutely everything, and it’s still only nine in the morning on the first of my four rural vacation days. I’ll be right back. I’m going to kill that rooster.

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