mollusk

Everyone in the pool today looked like an old boyfriend. It was not especially relaxing sharing a pool with hallucinations of my past, so I only clocked in a half hour before I simply had to get out. There are days when the water is easier to move through than others, days when it feels thicker and gummier, when the place is crowded with the kinds of swimmers who paddle along, refusing to get their heads wet, or the agro dudes who like to torpedo their way through the throngs, kicking you in the ribs as they go. Jackasses, I think.

There is only one indoor pool in Basel as far as I can tell, the Rialto. Its rhythms still mystify me, and for some reason, I can never seem to figure out how to get there the same way twice. The pool itself is on the ground floor of a building that contains a restaurant, apartments, an office belonging to the city's social services, and the headquarters (from what I can gather) of a focus group for disability and sexuality. We knew someone who used to live there, but when we asked, she admitted sheepishly that she never went swimming.

Since I have recently discovered that we will be spending next summer here, I have decided to fulfill my new year's resolution of leaving the house at least once every day by going swimming. This way I will be prepared to go swimming in the Rhine when the weather permits. This past summer suffered from ongoing electrical storms, torrents of rain, and frigid temperatures, and so despite best intentions, we never indulged in this cherished Basel summer pastime. The hope is that bad luck, like lightning, never strikes the same place twice.