Insomnia at 3AM, When the Mind Travels Before the Body Does

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It’s 3am. Birds are singing outside my window, keeping me wide awake and lost in thought.

The old windows of this 1960s building creak slowly whenever the wind picks up — at night, every gust sounds like a storm rolling through. The old lady down the hall is almost certainly awake too. I can hear water running from her kitchen; she’s probably watering her plants. She’s always had trouble sleeping, and I’m not surprised — she’s nearly 85.

There’s another elderly woman on this floor as well. Every day, someone comes to bring her food and tidy her apartment. In two years, I’ve only seen her once, for just a few seconds.

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The Alps Are Calling — And I’m Terrified

This week, I’m flying to my favourite destination in the Alps, and I’m nervous about it. The last time I was there was almost eight years ago.

So much has changed in my life since then. And here I am, awake at 3am, listening to birdsong and trying to figure out how to summarise eight years to everyone I’ll meet again. I don’t even know if they’re all still alive. Many of them were already quite old, and the pandemic swept through those mountain communities hard. I have no idea what I’ll find. None of them are on Facebook, and honestly, I can’t remember a single name.

Maybe it’s that — not the birds — keeping me awake.

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Leonard Cohen at Dawn

I always read too deeply into things when I should just roll over and go back to sleep. But just as I start to settle, the birdsong is interrupted by something unexpected — music drifting up from outside. Clear, unmistakable.

“Who is driving through the building at this hour listening to Leonard Cohen?”

Maybe it’s just a late-night radio DJ, but still — which station plays “Waiting for the Miracle“ before sunrise?

“I dreamed about you, baby. It was just the other night. Most of you were naked…”

Leonard sings it with that deep, unhurried voice. I should be dreaming the same things instead of fixating on elderly strangers somewhere in the Alps.

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A Trip Eight Years in the Making

I’ve been dreaming about this trip for years. I finally booked a room at my favourite hotel — nestled in the middle of the clouds, exactly as I remember it.

The last few years, I’ve only visited cities: capitals, famous landmarks, the usual tourist circuit. But 2020 changed something in me. When I get back, I’ll plan another city trip eventually. This time, though, I needed something different — no crowds, no noise, just mountains and altitude and the kind of silence that actually lets you breathe.

I used to own a restaurant. I remember the stress it brought me, almost every day. And yet, whenever I escaped that stress, I’d run straight into the middle of millions of people. Maybe it was a way of drowning it all out. But the lockdown experience reshaped me — quietly, without asking permission.

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The Moka Pot at 5am

Well, it’s very late or very early, depending on how you see it. The kitchen clock reads 5:12am, and I give up pretending I’ll sleep.

I get up, use the bathroom, and start making an espresso with my trusty Moka pot.

There’s something about the early morning — that particular softness before the world wakes up — that feels almost sacred. I sit in the chair beside the open window. A gentle breeze drifts in. The coffee touches my palate, and for a moment, I forget entirely what woke me.

I see her face in my mind — my partner, still asleep — and I think about how much I love her.

We are imperfect. We are human. And we are remarkably easy to make happy: a good espresso, a quiet morning, and the right face to hold in your thoughts.

The day can finally begin.

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