Morning begins with the door opening. Air moves differently outside the van. Cooler. Wet with the smell of the lake.
The first walk of the day goes one of two ways. Sometimes toward the lake shore. Sometimes toward the open ground beside the campsite where the earth has been disturbed by machines and piles of soil appear overnight. Both places carry strong information.
Birdsong travels clearly across the waste ground in the early morning. The ground holds many scents — dogs, birds, people, sometimes the sharp smell of human rubbish left behind. Street dogs pass through here often. Their messages remain in the soil and grass long after they have gone.
On other mornings the path leads down to the lake. There is a place where the water reaches the stones. I step in until it reaches my chest, sometimes deeper. Swimming changes the body. The weight of it disappears and the cold sharpens everything — scent, sound, movement. I paddle for a short time before climbing out again and shaking the water from my coat.
Later in the morning we walk into town. The promenade runs in a straight line beside the lake. Humans seem to prefer straight lines. For me the walk is shaped by four places along the route.
The first is where the lake touches the stones and the water can be entered easily.
The second is where many dogs pass. The ground holds their scent clearly. Some messages are old and faint. Others are fresh enough to read in detail.
The third place is where sticks sometimes gather along the edge of the water. I pause there to see what the lake has delivered.
The fourth place is quieter. Wind moves across the lake and carries information from far away — birds moving, distant dogs, sometimes the sound of boats starting their engines.
Once these places have been checked the walk settles into its usual rhythm.
Town carries far more scent than the lake shore.
Near the market and the butchers, the air becomes crowded with smells — meat, bread, vegetables, fish, spices, humans, and dogs moving close together. Street dogs appear more frequently here and the air fills with signals from many directions at once.
Humans react differently to dogs in town. Some move closer. Others change direction quickly or stiffen as we pass. The signals are clear even when the language is not.
After the market comes the café. At this point the walk always stops. I lie down beside the table while the humans drink coffee. This part of the day involves very little movement. It is mostly observation. Dogs pass between tables. Street dogs sometimes approach. I watch but rarely stand unless there is a clear reason. Rest is part of the routine. Sometimes I sleep.
The campsite smells different when we return. Vehicles arrive and leave during the day. New dogs appear and others disappear again. Their scent remains for a while before fading into the background.
By evening the route has been checked and the information gathered. Tomorrow the same path will hold different scents. That is reason enough to walk it again.
One sound, however, always produces the same response. The word sausage. No translation is required
