Big bright windows line the hall where breakfast is served. I’m sitting at a table by myself. the plate is made of ceramic: white, but not too bright. there’s the smell of coffee. the buffet tables have white table cloths, and food of all colors on top. I drink the juice: orange and sweet and sour. I’m still sweaty from the jog. But not cold -not yet anyway. The collars of my tops come half way up my neck. two layers. I zip them up higher; the zippers touches my chin. Makes me feel warm and protected.
I can hear sounds of utensils all around me. people are talking too. Always coming and going. hotel guests. Our guys are spread out on multiple tables around me. to my left there is a big table of around ten or so of them. Mahmoud is recounting a funny memory or a joke. animated as always. people laugh. he gets up. does the moves. people laugh more. I look at my plate. the scrambled eggs are yellow and white. a few slices of meat, pink. cheese, white. some of our guys are on the balcony, on my left. breeze makes their hair get up and dance.
Then come the three of my friends. sitting to my left and in front of me. the table shakes when they sit down. my friend on the left pats me on the back with his right hand. his voice is boisterous and happy. He looks sharp -like he just got out of shower after a good night’s sleep. when he comes back his plate is full. He likes the sausages. Too spicy for my taste. I like the soft music. the clean and friendly waiters, the sound of their Turkish-accented English, and the big chunks of roast beef being cut under bright lights.
I try and tune in: the body feels… calm. Got to get going though; we’re picking up our race packets: somewhere in a novelty shoe bag, there’s a piece of paper, with my name and serial number printed in large letters, a few small safety pins for attachment, and probably, a T-shirt that says Izmir Marathon across the chest. I look at the screen of my phone: it’s bright. The map shows where we are with a blue dot. Our destination is a thirty minute walk.