The hot water and the river

A guest at a small guesthouse on the west bank in Aswan remembers two kinds of thing, and they are not remembered in the same way.

The first kind is only noticed when it fails. The booking that holds. The boat that is waiting at the landing at the hour it was promised. The hot water. The lock that turns. The bill that matches what was agreed. When all of this works, the guest does not think about it at all, which is exactly right. It is the floor they walk on.

When any of it slips, it is all they talk about. Nobody returns home praising the view from a room whose door would not close.

The second kind is the opposite. The breakfast that is never quite the same twice. The host's brother who turns up one evening with a drum. The afternoon the wind drops and the river goes still. None of it could be measured or promised, and that is precisely why people mention it for years. If it were the same every visit, it would stop being worth the trip.

A guest feels it at once when the two get mixed up. A missed boat excused as charm sends people home before they ever see the river go still. A stay where every morning is identical and every room is the same room is faultless, and gone from memory by the airport.

So the question for anyone making something for other people is which parts belong on the floor and which belong in the air. Whatever you decide to make smooth has to be made completely smooth, with no bumps at all.

And everything else is allowed, even needed, to be a little different every time.