.SOMETIMES RAW.

It’s 9:45 p.m. You put in an extra, late spurt – for supper, you had a toasted sandwich at your desk, brushing the occasional crumb from the keyboard while you kept at it. It was difficult. But now it’s done. You have made the progress you had hoped to. Probably, it will all start again in the morning, but you will be working off a solid base – it won’t be the familiar scramble to catch up.

You are worn out. You had to make yourself stick at it – but now you are glad you did. There is a gentle ache in the middle of your back. You yawn and turn your neck from side to side; you stretch around and try to massage an awkward spot below your left shoulder blade. In a while, you will need to head off to bed – but not just yet. It is nice to linger and spin out the moment of repletion. It is lovely to saunter about and make a cup of tea. You might flick indifferently through the newspaper. You can’t get engaged: your brain has done its work and shies away from any further efforts.

The pleasure we feel after a good but hard day’s work is linked to a positive experience of willpower. It was tempting to break off; you could have put it off until tomorrow (you have often done that in the past); you could have become distracted (which is achingly familiar); you could have stayed physically at your desk but actually been fantasising about trips to in New York and Japan next year or finding out what your favorite author is up to at the moment. But you didn’t. You stuck with the big thing.

It’s also to do with a sense of mastery: in anticipation, we slightly feared the task. But we got on top of this tricky thing, and we tamed it. There were points when it felt we might not: it was too difficult; a solution seemed elusive; there were too many things we were trying to get right at the same time; a mass of details needed to be reduced to a simple, coherent shape – though it wasn’t at all obvious what this could be. An awkward email needed a tactful but firm response; a refusal had to be delivered without a sting; a criticism needed to be put forward delicately but very clearly. A hunch had to be turned into a proposal – and there is always a difficult point at which what had, from a distance, seemed like a good idea starts to look much less impressive close up, yet it was onto something …. only what exactly? Maybe you had to revise a report, and you dreaded unpicking work you had already done and facing the same old issues once again. We have been labouring against the normal forces of disintegration. Things that were scattered and messy have been brought together, harmonised, tidied up, elucidated. We have done something fundamental. We have held back the tide of chaos.

The pleasure of a long, productive project hints at a bigger theme. It is not simply about this moment and the particular tasks we have polished off. It is a promise that other problems can be faced as well. We are reminded of a capacity within ourselves to deal with difficulties, to get on top of challenges and to keep going until they are under control. We are seeing in ourselves an antidote to the fear of drifting. We naturally worry we will be swamped by demands; we know our own unfortunate tendency to let things fester. But right now, we are conscious of something else. We are capable of rousing ourselves, of focus and of sustained efforts. We can stick with something difficult and keep going through the temptations to break off and seek distraction. We have been just a little bit heroic, and we know it, and it feels nice.

Exhaustion is – all too often – a reason to have to give up because one’s strength has failed too soon. The brain starts to melt when really we should be getting on with a big task; the mind is worn out, while the problem remains unsolved. Instead, now, we are experiencing honourable or worthy tiredness. Instead of getting annoyed with ourselves for lacking energy, our pleasant tiredness feels like the natural and just reward for our labours. It’s setting us up for a good night’s sleep.

With this being said, my new book has been born.

Order it from any bookstore or on Amazon.

https://www.buchschmiede.at/app/book/263072-Daniela-Henry-The-Average-of-All-Possible-Things;bookType=PB

Thank you so much for reading my stuff.

I told the cleaning ladies to clean all the mirrors first. They really don’t listen, do they.

Some people seem to have it all. Money, fame, mansions, you name it. I always wonder how the super-rich live on a daily basis. But are they truly happy? When money is no issue, when you can do whatever you want. Maybe, maybe not. But it would be fun to live this kind of life for one day. Now, it’s unlikely for wealth to make one miserable. My point here isn’t that money is unimportant; it’s that if we have money without love, freedom, and a well-understood life, we will never be truly happy. And if we have them, but are missing the fortune, we can never be truly unhappy. It’s nice to have an expensive watch, but the watch will never be enough — feel enough — without having someone who will make you lose track of time. But real luxury in life to me is more time, health, financial peace, peace of mind, sense of purpose, restorative sleep, time in nature, meaningful connections and of course travel and time for fun. Here in Riyadh, it seems, ones is surrounded by money. The air smells like money and the abundance of things is enormous. So, to live like the super rich do, here in Riyadh, this is how I imagine it looks.

I play hide-and-seek in my 6000 square meter mansion with my son, both of us dressed in silk loungewear made out of gold. Sometimes, we don’t see each other for day because it is so big. We switch to silk Bisht (a formal, often gold-trimmed, outer cloak) and eat tons of dates and baclava for breakfast, prepared by our kitchen staff.

Later, I wear my new black Chanel dress to the opening of the latest camel and Arabian horse performance in a new overdimensional skyscraper that had been built overnight, enjoying the best and most expensive seats, actually on stage with the horses while they perform. Yeah, that kind of rich.

I own a silk Dior bathrobe exclusively for wafting silently from room to room when I’m home alone.

I celebrate the life of my best friend’s recently departed dog, who was run over by my Rolls-Royce. I am dressed again in black Chanel from head to toe out of respect for Monsieur Le Pooch.

My pilot was five minutes late for pickup, but I still arrived on time at my silent retreat at a Cistercian monastery in the Bahamas, carrying my Louis Vuitton yoga mat. I prepared for the occasion by getting Botox shots in my armpits to ensure that the sound of dripping sweat will not disturb me during scorpion pose.

My butler is contractually obligated to say everything sotto voce (a quiet voice, in case you don’t know. We use big words and terms only because we are fancy!) 

I take a therapist-mandated time-out, during which I must remove my Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels, sit in the corner of my therapist’s office (facing the wall), and remain silent for fifty-five minutes. My therapist is one of the leading proponents of Laconism, a school of psychiatry based on the belief that the best way to treat mental illness is not to speak about it.

I wear my Versace leather jumpsuit at a dinner invitation for diplomatic VIPs only. The US president will be present. Also, all the kings of all kingdoms.

I have a Bottega Veneta toiletry kit full of calming supplements and remedies. It is getting a little chilly outside while I am putting on my Prada wool scarf.

I hold in a fart in the ground-floor bathroom of the Ritz Carlton Hotel.

I bring a suitcase stuffed with Armani cashmere scarves to my lover’s castle. I do this so I can scatter them on the floor and sneak out without waking him the next morning. That’s how much I care about his work as the president of Kingdom INC. 

Now that I’ve created a foundation dedicated to making dates in all variations with real gold sprinkles, I always take care to wear my Valentino wrap coat for the dates headquarters’ annual active-shooter drill and mass casualties drill. 

I take a break from my busy day and read a book at the rooftop cafe of Ritz Carlton Hotel after having indulged in a lunch with too much lobster and caviar. 

When my Kingdom INC lover dumps me at charity date headquarters, I don’t make a scene. I save my screaming and sobbing for the soundproofed space our charity likes to call the “Date-Baclava-Chicken-Rice Room.” 

During my voluntary stay at the Psychiatric Hospital for the super rich, I am confined to a leather-padded cell, wearing a vintage, studded straitjacket designed by Karl Lagerfeld. 

I never talk about money. Only poor people do that.

This year, we planned something slightly different for Halloween. Romania, with Transylvania as the main destination. We arrived in Timisoara and explored, headed to Brasov and Bran Castle, Poenari Fortress, and Transfagarasan road, and slept in a Bed & Breakfast in the middle of nowhere, which was probably more terrifying than anything else!

Transylvania is famous for its vampire legends and bloodthirsty Count Dracula, popularized by Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel, Dracula. But the Vlad Ţepeş that inspired the book was very real – referred to throughout history as “Vlad the Impaler” for his agonizing method of impaling his enemies and criminals on long spikes.

In fact, Vlad never lived at the clifftop Bran Castle. Where Dracula did live, though, was Poenari Castle, also known as Poenari Fortress, which was a principal residence. Poenari served as a strategic stronghold for Vlad during his reign.

So, after we discovered all those castles, we headed to the Transfagarasan road, which is mostly closed for the winter season already. Because of this, and since we got tired, we decided to stay at a Bed and Breakfast deep in the Carpathian woods. Let’s call the place The Garlic Not. The listing said “easily accessible by car,” but I only got there after being stuffed into a haunted rental car (was it even an official rental car?) by some Carpathian peasants surrounded by hundreds of stray dogs and had to drive through the deepest, darkest woods for hours.

We got to The Garlic Not, and the place was deserted. We were the only guests. This B&B was run by an 86-year-old mother and her son, and a cook which reminded me of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. We decided to sit in their restaurant to eat something, write a bit on my novel, take some notes, and talk to my son, when the old woman with the fewest teeth I’ve ever seen handed me a menu.

“For our guests – on the house,” she said, and passed us the menu and two goblets of something red to drink. We took a sip, and it was not bad. We ordered the paprika hendl (traditional and national dish) and decided not to ask her about the weird drink thing.

I looked around, and this place was spooky. Outside, some stray dogs howled, and the old lady told us that they would protect us from the bears. Bears that are still everywhere because they don’t hibernate yet. “They come really close to this bed and breakfast. If you guys go outside again, make sure to close the main gates and don’t go too far away. We have all kinds of guns here to protect you. These bears are no joke,” she added. I’ve only been in Transylvania for three days, and the omnipresent fog, eerie wind chimes, and sinking feeling that something horrible is about to happen started to feel normal.

I took a sip of my cocktail and wondered how I would continue the conversation with the old lady owner. I started nonchalantly and asked if there were hiking trails. She said a simple, “no,” and added that “her brother went missing three years ago. And his fiancée. And her dad. And his fiancée. And several other visitors -mostly Germans who thought they could run away from bears with Birkenstock sandals and ugly socks”. I sipped my cocktail slowly while my son kicked me under the table and whispered, “Mom, I told you not to come here! It is too spooky. And look at this weird guy sitting in this corner of the restaurant. Didn’t the old lady say we are the only customers?”

That’s when I saw him. His razor-sharp, marble-like cheekbones, his jet black eyes, and the fourteenth-century cape he wore. He sat in the back of the restaurant and also drank a big glass of something red. He stared at me until I picked up my weird drink and walked over to his table. “Mom, nooooo….!” my son screamed, but it was too late. We both walked over to meet the Count.

“Count Dracula is my name. Daniela and Joel (how did he know our names?), welcome. Sit!” he said, still glowering. We took a seat. We had no choice.

“Why are you guys here? So far out in the wild?” he asked.

“Oh, we are actually here on vacation, but I got tired driving, so we stopped here,” I replied.

It’s hard even to believe he’s here in front of me. Count Dracula opened his mouth again, and I saw those long, long, very pointy teeth, and I got that weird feeling in my chest again. My son whispered, “Mom, let’s go!”

“You know, I could help you with your novel if you want,” Dracula offered when he saw that my son wanted to leave and pulled me away.

“I think I am okay. It is awfully late and we are tired. We should go to bed now, “I replied.

“But I stay up all night,” he responded.

“Uh-huh. Doing what? Playing creepy organ songs?” I joked.

“I can play something for you guys,” he smiled, the first time he smiled.

Dracula reached out and touched my shoulder. His fingers were eight centimeters long, and just as pointy as his teeth. His touch was ice cold. My son screamed, and it broke his evil spell. I looked at my son, who yelled and tried to distract Dracula: “Mom, now, run!”

“My son is right. I should go,” I told him. I got up and ran for the door.

“Wait!” Dracula yelled across The Garlic Not in a very spooky voice.

Count Dracula ran (flew?) towards me.

A bat flew by my head, and I lost my balance. Count Dracula caught me, and I stared into his translucent white face. He leaned in and kissed me. His mouth was hungry, impatient. But he wasn’t kissing me the usual way. He bit into my neck, and blood started spurting everywhere. Then I passed out and found myself the next day in my bed. Nicely tucked in, my son next to me. “Mom, I had the weirdest dream last night. I dreamed we met Dracula in the restaurant!” he said. “I had the same dream. Weird. Let’s go downstairs, have breakfast, and check out of here. What a weird place,” I replied.

When we pulled out of the driveway a couple of hours later, it was when I knew.

The weird thing is, I now have night vision and can levitate. I am also most active at night and sleep in a coffin during the day. It is just more comfortable this way. My son feels the same way. But overall, what a cool trip to Romania. The food was great, and from now on, everything we do is going to be all-vampire, all the time.

For the Bed & Breakfast review online: I gave two stars instead of one because the Count didn’t charge me for the extra day and provided free breakfast, but tbh if you’re looking for a place in Transylvania, you should probably just stay at the Holiday Inn in a big city instead of going so deep into the Carpathian woods, unless you want the full Dracula experience of course.

Days later, I checked if my review ever went online, but The Garlic Not does not exist.