the french are weird example #264.

#264: Lemming, a French domestic psychological thriller. In standard French movie form, it leaves you giggling with disbelief and your mouth agape in the formation of 'whaaat?' throughout the movie. Continues in French Domestic Thriller Movie fashion by including build-ups of unbearable intensity leading to...absolutely nothing at all. But, despite its interesting and slightly uncomfortable sexuality and non-linear plot, you can't say that it didn't absolutely floor you and keep your interest the whole way through. I'd recommend it. See also: Garnett, Ben, the loser I saw this with. (He pronounces oregano like OR-e-gan-o.)

I've discovered, or re-discovered, London's movie scene: this city really has everything; it has loads of interesting cinemas that have specially themed weeekends and foreign films that show almost all the time. Since returning from Japan, I've seen three movies. Sure, it's put me back 20 quid, but the awakening has been quite refreshing. Unfortunately, lots of these movies are available on, oh, I don't know, Netflix, so the desire to just write down titles and gobble them all up within the month I'm at home is very tempting.

Beyond the French and the Movies:
It has occurred to me, before today, and even before Easter holiday, that I have become bitchy with London the way somebody can be always complaining about something they love dearly. For example, your significant other, "Oh man, he always leaves the toilet seat up and he makes the strangest noises when he chews!" Or, "That stupid stupid cat always wants to go outside, but he always ends up eating some strange plant from the garden and throwing up on the new wood floors! I could wring that little bastard's neck!" Or, "What the hell are Bank Holidays and why does everything cease to function during these holiday weekends? Why can't I get anywhere on the Tube? Why is this city so ridiculously lame?"

That last example is based on reality or, more specifically, a censored version of what went through my head today when it took an hour to get to Great Portland St. (usually a half hour ride). To make matters worse, the reason for travel - to watch the Man Utd vs. Chelsea game - ended in defeat for United and the Chelsea bastards receiving their Premiership trophy and medals at their home turf just minutes away from me at Stamford Bridge and having to watch Wayne Rooney, an ugly bugger but crucial to team England in the World Cup, get a fractured metatarsal. Yes, metatarsal. Like those things in a dinosaur's foot.

But I do feel like I belong to the city. Here are several instances that you can use to determine whether or not you actually belong to a city/neighborhood:
1. You recognize the bums that only sit on New Cross Road on Friday and Saturday nights, when The Venue nightclub is overflowing with rich 20somethings who can afford to pay 12quid cover for some shit cover band. By 4am, I'm woken up by the drunk, slightly less rich 20somethings out on the street waiting for the nightbus.
2. When you see the Long Wait crosswalk turn green while you're still standing at the street before. You know the green man on the Long Wait crosswalk only lasts about 8 seconds (you've counted) and you know you won't get there by then and you curse inwardly. You can see everybody else who doesn't make it curse inwardly too because the average wait is 2minutes (approximately, you haven't counted.) London has a horrible system of crosswalks, in that you have to usually cross two different directions to get across one street.
3. You recognize the traffic patterns of the Tube trains. If you see the train at New Cross station chugging down the tracks, you can make it to New Cross Gate if you walk there straight away to catch a train. If you see people exiting on the bridge over the tracks, you better run to catch the train - it only waits for 4 minutes - and the previous passengers have already rambled off and made their way out. If you see a crowd of people still on the platform, you can slow down because you probably still have the whole 4 minutes left.
4. You are ready with 2.30 in exact change in your pocket to buy lunch from Iceland down the street: 1 frozen pizza and 2 Diet Cokes (it's a deal; ideally you drink one now and save one for tomorrow, but you usually only end up saving it until later that day.)

londontown in bloom.

I'm back from Japan. My diagnosis was, in the past, severe, but luckily, it seems to be some strain slightly off from what I had originally guessed. Oh goodness, what a horrible metaphor, for it sounds now like I've diagnosed Japan with some disease. I suppose it does have at least one: and that is the one that's going to develop from an overabundance of self-tanner. And another one called kawaii. That's probably just the phonetic spelling, but it sounds like 'Hawaii,' if you say it really excitedly. It means "cute," and we all know Japan is obsessed with "cute." Other than that, however, it was a surprsingly calm city. I'm used to the hustle and bustle of people now - I'd say London is less calm, more energetic - but perhaps that is the strangeness of Tokyo. It's all like a conveyor belt, with tons and tons of people on it, yes, but they're just all going around the same pace. It seems like a bigger crime if you stand on the wrong side of the escalator in London - because people are rip-roaring to go, or just taking their time. It seems more like a medium in Tokyo. You see a lot more people running for trains in London. But maybe that's because they don't know how to slow down. Oh, who knows, a week in Tokyo (minus days for Disneyland & Mt. Fuji) is hardly long enough to analyze the city. Let's just say: it was a good time. But goodness, please, a note to any future civilization: 10 different metro lines is really confusing. It makes your citizens sad, mad, and bad. And more importantly, it makes me feel incompetent and sad. Speaking of incomptent, however, the shrines in China are a lot bigger. And their pagodas. Which some have pointed out to me, is because Japan is a tiny island, but if you're talking about shrines, you really shouldn't cut back, yah?

London is blossoming all over. The parks are now beautiful to walk through - trees are blossoming left and right and I'm gleeful about the giant tulips that have suddenly appeared out of nowhere. London has changed in the month that I've been gone and I'm glad I can recognize it. There are new ads on the Underground, new paint jobs, new exhibitions at museums, and at least one of the hairdressers on New Cross Road has gone out of business/disappeared, and one has turned into a small grocery store. Now my days are to be filled with lounging on the grass with a book and some writing project (hopefully.) That's the romantic idea. We'll see what happens. I'm not notoriously lazy, but I am lazy.

Last night Arsenal beat Villareal to make it to the finals in the UEFA Champions League. (This is footie, folks.) I didn't watch the game (instead Ben-G and I went to watch 'American Dreamz') but on the tube ride home, I saw, in particular, this one ecstatic couple. I'm not much for PDA, or even seeing couples in public. Any couple in public pretty much makes me a little bit less happy inside (I can't explain it), but these two kids were quite wonderful. They were both holding printed-before-the-result-of-the-match t-shirts that had the Arsenal logo and 'CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL 2006' written on them right up against their bodies. The girl had it draped over her torso and the guy was holding it tightly on his lap. They were grinning randomly, muttering 'I can't believe they're in the final' and my favorite, they were so happy that they would randomly face each other and sort of bang their heads together for random sloppy kisses. And I think, if you should kiss in public for any reason, it should be because of a sports team. Because any other reason, we don't really want to know about.

(Europe and Japan shots linked in two new albums at the bottom...)

intermin:

intermission: goofing around in london, abbey road, finally.

there and back again and there.

I haven't yet digested the fact that I just spent the last two and a half weeks in Europe. It hasn't really hit me, and maybe there isn't supposed to be an impending big blow. It's 1am and there are two kids on the floor: one absorbed in People magazine, and one reading the Bible before he goes to sleep. I'm here writing in my blog because writing in my blog, writing anything at all, gives me solace. Perhaps there's nothing to write about my trip at all. Perhaps travel isn't anything more than a nice time - because it was definitely fulfilling in that aspect. Maybe it's an affirmation of our ability to do anything we want whenever we want, an affirmation that the world is not, in fact, a little box, but a big open playground.

I must say, however, that the last few days I've been back in London, I'm surprised how much English is spoken around me. American accents are no longer grating, but a fact of life. When I say 'sorry' I keep thinking I've said the wrong word, that I should be saying 'pardonne' or some European version of the word. Whenever I say 'thanks' or let 'cheers' slip, I think I should be saying 'grazie,' never knowing whether to pronounce it with two syllables or three, and finally settling on three.

Why does a simple list of the cities and countries I've been to seem less than adequate? Because anybody can visit big cities. Fine, here it is: Amsterdam, Zaandam, Paris, Munich, Dakow, Vienna, Como, Bellagio, Milan. Ask me about it, and I'll tell you. The days and nights in these different locales, on buses, in train stations, are reserved for what was written in the time and place, tucked safely away in the designated travel journal.

London holds me in its lovely open palm for only a day more: I'm off to Japan.