You grew up in a lighthouse that grew out of a tiny rocky island. When you were little, you were only allowed to walk around on the rock if you had a rope around your waist, and when the tide was in, the rock was completely covered by water. If there was a storm, it was impossible to leave the lighthouse, and the only window that could be opened was the small window in the bathroom, and you stood there whenever there was a storm, you stood there with your eyes closed, and felt salt water and finally, finally, fresh air on your face. The only place you had to play was a staircase, a spiral staircase that twisted up through all four floors of the lighthouse; it was your playground, your garden, mountain, valley, and country road. You ran up and down those stairs, ran all the way down to sit on the bottom step, dejected, on evenings when the sea was still and a cruise ship sailed by in the moonlight with music and dancing on the quarterdeck. You stumbled up those same stairs, legs leaden with shame, when you came home one evening after rowing out to the royal yacht to give the crown prince some of the rare shells that only grew on the island where you lived, and the crown prince had been so nice and asked about your schooling, and he was tall and handsome in a blue suit, and the crown princess had stood up on deck and thrown a bar of chocolate down to the crown prince and the crown prince had caught it gracefully, then thrown it down to you in the boat, where you sat in dumb desperation; you couldn’t stand up in the boat to curtsy—you had always been given strict instructions that you were not supposed to stand up in a boat, not even for a bar of chocolate from a crown prince, and then the deep blush when you tried to bow instead, but it was impossible, and idiotic, because you were sitting down. It perhaps goes without saying that in situations and surroundings like that, you might long for places where you can stand upright and curtsy, or wander around in any direction, not just up and down. And perhaps it goes without saying that when you then finally, finally get ashore and there are suddenly streets—dry, wide streets and sidewalks bathed in sunlight, and avenues and entire parks with endless grass—that you then lose your balance, feel dizzy and sick and trip up, and it perhaps goes without saying that when the dizziness doesn’t subside, and you don’t give up, but get up and try again, then stumble and fall, that then and there, it might seem like your balance nerve has permanently fallen out of your body and that the only way you can live (because you can’t live with this nauseous feeling) is up and down a spiral staircase in a slender lighthouse on an island out at sea.
* * *
Luckily, that was a misconception.