It was one of Berkeley's chilly and deserted evenings. We were sitting under the circus roof lights of cafe Strada, at one of those round tables with a piece of world map imprinted on its top, reading Baudelaire and sharing our thoughts about the meaning of his poems in Russian, English, and French simultaneously. We broke out laughing at the unwanted attention that our trilingual conversation had stirred, and then it hit us - Berkeley - so many languages, so many cultures, so much life and ... 更多
