Triste

I must admit at the outset that my drive to write is currently less than fervent. Writing from what is intended to be not a voice, but my voice has its drawbacks. Were I to be writing, say, a semi-fictional, gratuitously embellished, first person auto biographical account of an eighteenth century widower, mother of three, with a grapefruit sized goiter and a penchant for fresh taffy, leaving her children unattended during her three day trips to the nearest bay city, I would have an easier time writing on a night like tonight. But lo, I feel, and hence can speak as nothing more than a hapless wanderer on an often too lonely planet. Aside from reading the closing pages of my novel –once a vastly satisfying series of moments, now in my older age and preference for realist, that is, lacking happy endings literature, a profound resurgence of goalless yearning- what is more potent, palpable is my seemingly all too soon leave taking of my Hispaniola rooted amica. Verily, the leg of my trip through the British and French metropoli, and through the would-be otherwise unvisited (save of course, San Fermin and Ernest Hemingway) city of Pamplona was intended to be the shorter of my travels. Still, I neglected to realize how much my anticipation of reunion with long friends kept my spirits high in the prior. Now, I am truly left to none but my own devices -the fancy of the bird admiring, cubicle loathing day dreamer, no?

Adventurer, space-traveler as I am, as we all are, we crave, even require a track on which to clasp our ever restless wheels of otherwise unbridled desire. Without such, a planetless moon, we tumble through time without the simple joy of pulling out a tide or lighting the way for a weary traveler, needing only enough reflected radiance to distinguish water from brine.

But enough pretentious metaphors and disharmonic yarn spinning, my body, not my mind makes decisions at this hour, and rest, with a side of repair is the order tonight.

Un Poquito De Sol

When I awoke, or rather, when I was awoken by a French train operator shaking me and saying a number of things to which my simply standing and gathering my things was luckily satisfying, I had come, over the course of about five hours, to the French border town of Hendaye (Onn-Dye). A quaint port town resting at the feet of the Pyrenees, Hendaye might make a good quiet getaway for a writer of cheap, recycled-paper bound mystery novels, the kind the would-be-surprise end of which the experienced reader is aware hundred pages before the end, yet finishes it for the same as yet unintelligible reason behind the unbridled success of such tripe as the Da Vinci Code (Tom Hanks, truly, you are the ace in the hole). But my stay here was brief, allowing barely enough time to enjoy a baguette y hamon y uno pint de Kronenburg. Soon enough, a privately operated train left from across the parking lot that promised to take me to San Sebastian (check your pronunciation; it’s wrong) for the nominal fee of one Euro and thirty-five cents. The ensuing ride through the Basque country (do your own research) was the first time yet that I had begun to ask myself just exactly into what I had gotten myself now. Dilapidated apartment buildings, the type with clothes hanging on all the balconies (I suppose for drying, though the weather has been anything but dry, ensuring must, mold) set off the skyline while the ground was covered, when not simply with trash, by tent like residences, resembling a refugee camp from TeeVee. This continued for about 35 minutes when finally the train arrived at its terminus in the heart of San Sebastian. A beautifully planned and constructed port/beach city, S. Sebastian is home to brave coldwater surfers, tourism in the warmer months surely, and a bustling café and boutique atmosphere. My momentary fears were heartily dismissed.
This is the first place yet where people, once they find out I speak not French, Basque, or Spain, are surprised, curious what exactly has brought me these many thousand kilometers to their relatively small town. To some, I am an interest, especially as I am traveling alone, to others, a nuisance, wasting their time trying to explain myself. Regardless, and I cannot stress this enough, I am overjoyed to be doing this on my own. Everything I do is exciting and a challenge. On my seat on the trains, I literally sit on the edge. Any compatriot with which I might travel would surely tire of me, and I of them, wasting energy and attention better directed at unfamiliar experience. An exception might be made in the form a female comrade whose required heartiness (that is, ability to not bitch) might certainly have a negative effect on her aesthetic quality. Perhaps I could find a tenable combination somewhere in the Eastern block.
My mind is firing a million bursts a second, digging tunnels through my grey matter in a valiant effort to adapt to my fish flapping on the carpet circumstances, and this can be exhausting, if not merely exhilarating. So after a hot meal and a beer I made my way to my room and shut down my circuits for the night, at 8:30 local time, falling asleep to the tune of Spanish-language coverage of the USA v. Norway Olympic Curling competition.
The following day I had to myself, as my train to Pamplona departed not until 8 pm. I spent most of my time on the beach with my novel (The American by Henry James, purchased from a second hand bookseller on the Thames walk) enjoying the first sunshine I have yet to see my entire trip. Though the air estaba frio, I laid in pants and a t-shirt for the better part of two hours in complete comfort. Then, when clouds blew back over the sun I found a music shop, the first one I have been able to locate yet, and shredded for an hour. Upon deciding the proprietor had had his fill of my art, I made my way down the street and into another music shop, where I preceded to do the same thing for another hour. By now it was time to catch my train. Two hours through the darkness to the tune of the Lips (my travels’ theme music) brought me to Pamplona, Katherine, and a night on the town where I made a great number of friends, even having a philosophical conversation with two philosophy majors in broken spanglish with subjects ranging from the LA attitude of Adorno, to the lack of academic attention given to the Pragmatists (Perth, James) in the States. Needless to say, I was a pig in pigslop.

Quiet Time

For someone like myself, who often needs to be reminded that often a moment of silence can be more effective, more informative even, than two minutes of mindless chatter, Europe is the perfect place for lessons on what, for the sake of clarity, I shall call shutting the hell up. Of course, this proves easier when all I really have to say is “Hello”, “Please”, “Thank you”, “Which way to the bordello”, “Can I have a cigarette with my croissant”, and other all too common colloquialisms. Like a novel, film, or one of the later, more dramatic episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 the true fabric of conversation lies in the subtext. Listen to the words spoken to you, digest them and choose the words you would like to use in rapport. It’s the time left in between that allows the extra-earthly author, who’s actually penning the events from some higher dimensional plane to provide his or her 7^th dimensional pink robot shapeshifter audience with supplementary descriptions of eye movement, all the while building suspense not to be released until the silence is once again broken, and it turns out that you actually were supposed to be an elephant.

I Am Benjamin Franklin

Really, it’s true what they (the well-traveled cosmopolitan intelligentsia into which I have only recently gained entrance) say, Paris is magnificent. London is big, without a doubt, but whereas everything revolves outward from Central London (home to Westminster Abbey, the houses of Parliament, droves of camera wielding tourists, etc.) forming different boroughs in a grid like manner, similar to New York, Paris is different. Most every intersection in the city is the intersection of five, six, or seven roads, all with different names on either side of the center. The subway map resembles one of those multi-coloured wire & wooden sliding ball apparatuses found in doctor’s office waiting rooms, and enjoyed by so many children. Their play, however, is usually less concerned with travel productivity and line transfers than with simply occupying the time that they might usually devote to other activities: eating, spitting up, crying, and other more general forms of annoyance to their parents; I’m trying to find a particular café! Another thing that makes Paris so confusing, yet also adds significantly to its charm, is that all or much of the architecture is in a similar style. After making three transfers between wet spaghetti noodle lines and spending nearly half an hour on crowded trains, I arrived, climbed the stairs and could have sworn I was in the same place I started: A statue of De Gaul, three or so corner cafes, and you guess it, a Starbucks. But, fortunately for my dumb-faced non French speaking ass, it was not, and out of the crowd of scarved, hatted, and pea-coated Parisians came a shout of my name en Anglais.

After a lunch and espresso at a cozy corner café, I and my old friend/impromptu tour guide Claire made our way through the tourist sites of central Paris. Pictures were taken, and will be displayed soon, when I have time, and access to a MacDonalds (free wifi). But truly, I am unconcerned with relating the specifics of my sightseeing, as you can surely receive a better education on the subject via a postcard collection and a medium sized figurine of the Eiffel Tower. A more important endeavor, as far as my concern, is to gain a better understanding of the French people by means other than their architecture or gift shops. (To whichever of you might have secretly wished for such a souvenir, I offer my deepest regret. Not that I will have disappointed you, but that I have a comrade with such poor taste) .

My night on the town in Paris was from a dream. As I walked home around 430 this morning I was caught talking aloud to myself by numerous passers-by. Imagine a dirty drunk foreigner walking the streets of your capital city, smiling ear to ear, laughing, discussing his evening with himself, generally raving. I had the good fortune of visiting Paris on a night when a band including members Claire’s high school posse, some good friends she had not seen in years, had a gig at a good club. The music --traditional French meets bouncing reggae meets country—was, for sincere lack of poetic voice-- awesome. Jubilant, smiling and boundlessly attentive twenty-somethings packed La Scene (no, it’s not pronounced how you think) wall to wall dancing and clapping to the beat, even singing along (the headlining band playing after my new friends’ is evidently quite well known in Paris). After the show (which, while probably not on par for a masochistic self-and-everyone-else-hating Athens hipster indie townie crowd, was nevertheless incredible) the band took their winds and strings to the center of the dance floor for an encore acoustic session, with all the patrons allowing for a circle and sitting cross legged on the floor. It was intimate, and immeasurably enjoyable to all.

Afterwards, as the American/guy with the beautiful French girl on his arm, I found myself backstage for free beer, treats, and at times painstaking conversation. All the French speak English, some better than others, but with at least three in the room, sense can usually be triangulated. Thus began our night traveling from bar to bar, buying beers out of shops when inbetween clubs, generally the agents of good-natured mischief until near five this morning. The friends I have made through Claire I am sure to contact in the future, one I mght even meet next week in Madrid. But now I leave Paris reluctantly, and enchante!

Now, as I write I am on a train through France to the South. My next goal is Pamplona, home of my friend Katherine. I am lucky to have two friends to guide me, and beautiful women at that! To leave a bit of suspense…a cliffhanger as they say…..the train I’m on is not the one I intended to take at all. At Claire’s advice I changed my course and am now fairly unaware of exactly where I’m going, because as we have discussed, my French is far below snuff. To be sure, the scenery is beautiful, and though I slept a mere 3 hours before leaving Paris, I am reluctant to go to sleep, which is exactly what I am going to do right now. More blog when my delirium subsides.

View from my hotel room. Parfait! Later this evening I have a story to tell to wrap up my adventures en Londres. For now, Jazz. Sante!

Beer to Coffee Ratio a Solid 1 to 1. Got to Keep My Wits!

Yesterday, at the advice of one Sir Sharles, I boarded the Underground towards Camden Town. My hostel, at which I have extended my stay one more night, is not but a few blocks from Victoria Station, one of the main hubs for the tube (the Underground), the station also has long haul departures out of London. This makes it a ripe place for people watching, and for Starbucks outlets -- three inside and one on the street without. So, after procuring a Venti Columbian with a spot of pouring cream, I stuffed my body through the doors and ‘mongst the hoards of commuters, “minding the gap” as I stepped on of course. The tension on these dilapidated 60’s model trains is palpable following the recent bombings. Anyone with large luggage or cargo that isn’t dressed hippest of hip (this, in the capital of the culture industry –sorry LA, being more likely to draw suspicion than nationality of skin colour) is instantly aware that the eyes of the car are upon them, thence making every opportunity to exchange glance-nods and ease tensions. When the train arrives at your station you follow the “way out” signs towards the escalators. Here, I have witnessed a wonderful thing: First, for those of you who don’t already know, escalators are not rides. They are not there for your entertainment or enjoyment but rather to expediate your climbing. Britons are full aware of this and instantly cling single file, often sacrificing their groups, to the right had side, allowing those of us comfortable making our own way up to pass. It is truly a beautiful site to behold, and I can only hope for the future subscription to such mores in the states.

So eleven minutes later I arrive in Camdentown, the “Amsterdam of the UK”. Similar, for you Atlantans, to our little five points district, only much larger, the area is a haven for head shops, hipster clothing outlets, streetside “skunk” sellers, and of course, droves of tourists. After spending the first hour our so searching in vain for a guitar shop (I’m jonesin’ to shred!) the first all-out rains of my holiday forced me indoors. Luckily I found myself in what’s probably the coolest pub I’ve yet visited. The expression “pulling pints” has a little bit more weight over here as to draw a full beer takes four of five tugs on an enormous hydraulic system, releasing some damn fine brew served at near room temperature. I think that when your beer is cold we have more of an inclination to devour it before it goes warm, thinking this a bad thing. Being unconcerned with temperature in the first leads to a much more relaxed and slower drinking pace all around. I was even chastised by a Czech acquaintance for my haste. Damn my American consumerism.

I made a number of friends at the pub while we waited out the rains including a couple on holiday, Matt and Amy, from a town just West of Slough, whose name I forget. Turns out Matt was also on the hunt for a guitar to shred as he missed his rig too. An effects freak and vamp-jazz jammer as well, we talked shop for half an hour --much to Amy’s dismay—until the rains let up and the clouds parted, revealing another layer of slighted more altitudinous and everso slighty lighter clouds. Beautiful really…

Back down the tube towards Westminster, as the trains stop at 12 and I was more than a few hours walk from home. A pub just down the street, The Camel, offers a burger and a pint for 6 pounds, quite a steal. What’s more, as it was Sunday, the place was maddeningly slow save a few die hard football fans watching Isle of Man vs. Manchester. This allowed my waitress, an absolutely stunning Australian sojourner, to go so far as to sit down with me while I ate and drank. My favorite people I have met so far have been Australians, and there are many here, particularly in the service industry. So separated geographically, yet intertwined politically with the US and UK, spending a two-year work visa in London seems a common rite of passage for Aussie twenty-somethings. When Linda’s visa runs up next month she and her friends are planning a trip to and across the US and Canada, hopefully she will accept my offer of lodging direction in the South, only time will tell.

The rest of the night I spent in the laptop lobby of the hostel listening to a fellow traveler play some of the most sublime jazz piano I have ever heard, all on his crappy Yamaha beatbox keyboard. The hostel is full of semi-permanently residing artists, some starving, some successful.

Still, I am ready to make leave of Londontown, the 1 for 2 exchange on the dollar is draining my resources, and I can’t eat anymore fish and/or chips. So, tomorrow I will make my way to Paris, via the Eurostar chunnel, a journey which will take three hours, landing me in the center of town at 3 pm. I am excited to have booked a hotel (note the omission of the telling “s”) as the hostels I looked into were actually more expensive than a room I was able to get for 50 Europes. Having a friend to visit makes the prospect of staying alone much more acceptable, and the expectation of a hot, sufficiently pressured shower makes me tingle with greasy-haired and body-odored excitement. Still, I am wary that the Parisians will be as judgmental and corrupt as all the Brits I’ve spoken to claim. To this effect, I will only stay in Paris for about 48 hours at which point I have a 30 euro flight to Barcelona, my gateway to Pamplona, home of my good friend Katherine, and to the rest of Spain towards Gibraltar and Africa.

Post Scriptum: I want to sincerely thank everyone for taking the time to peruse my verbose and pretentious ramblings, an audience is a genuinely exciting prospect for me, literally fueling my drive to look, do, and remember. I am anxious for your comments!

The Times, 72 font: "Bird Flu Now a Mere 400 Miles From Britain!"

I think what I find so interesting about London, and at the same time, so grossly unappealing aside from the "eye", is that an extremely large majority of the people you pass on the street are not Londoners. Sure, it's an international city, with travelers from all over the world taking snapshot after snapshot after relentlessly repeated photograph. But not only multi-nationals crowd the best picture taking sidewalk space --"oh excuse me, I didn't see that you were taking a picture here....I'll walk in the street........Oh right...on the left side.." -- It's Britons by the Tubeload! When I think of it, which I did earlier and you can now, London is to the fog-breathers as New York is to us Yanks: We know its there, hell, we can drive to it; it's the capitol -- well....I mean really, are we ready to give up this D.C. charade? -- We almost consider it part of our daily lives (esp. when it's bombed!). But truth is, the average...say...Carolinian is about as familiar with the best place to find a reuben in New York as is your common bloke from Derbyshire with the bloody Waterloo Bridge!
Still, its good time spent. The more people I meet the more similarities I see. I mean, who doesn't like sausage and beans two meals a day and tea at seven and five? Interesting to note is that the Hostel at which I am currently struggling to draw a word out of some and a smile out of the Germans is full not neccesarily of travelers like myself. Sure, a group of midwestern fems checked in today, and Hayes, my roommate, 35, from LA, is still finding himself. But near half of the folks I have met are semi permanent residents, looking for and even tending to service industry positions here in town, all while dropping 80 pounds (~$150) a week to share a room with six. Remarkably, this is still cheaper than most flats. Though, I can only imagine, terrible after six months!
I have decided(90%) that I will take leave of London town come Monday, when my tenure at the lovely AstorVictoria expires. To Paris, for a short visit of a friend, then south.....Morocco calls.... For now, the chitterchat and drunkenmunch of rich American sorority broads has derailed my train. We are becoming a world of tacky tourists...

Welcome

Welcome all, to the modernstauv blogspot! Check daily, no, hourly! I will write much.

All hail the Astor Victoria, London -and their free wifi!

Port to Port

Originally intending to say “broadcasting live from Hartsfield-such-and-such Airport in Atlanta” and to compliment the establishment on their long overdue addition of wifi coverage, this entry’s publication will be delayed until arrival at Charles DeGaul in Paris, an international bastion of the truly free internet. Yes, for a mere 9.95 USD I could log in join the “Boingo” system and log on to publish, though I will certainly abstain, citing the ridiculous name among other faults.

An airport, the Atlanta airport: a veritable rift in the time/space continuum. Here you can arrive on Thursday, board a steel tube, hibernate, and reanimate in a foreign time and place, all for a nominal fee/temporary abandonment of personal rights. “Are your papers in order?” “Are they hanging around your neck?” “Could you hang them around your neck please” “And give me all your lighters…..all of them…..here’s 20 books of matches”

“Which way to the smoking coffin?”

And then there’s Air Fraunce. You know they (I) have, in the past, among friends, and in various academic papers, accused the French of being nihilists. While this may still be true, at least in their theoretical linguistic endeavors, they do, I now know, believe in a few things. Hot stewardesses: fuck equal rights in the tube, is it so much to ask for a pretty face to serve me drinks? Which brings me to their next strongest belief: Boos.

“Oui, red wine please……..two actually”

“Merci”

“And a glass of scotch to round it off, neat, merci”

The Future

I've been thinking about...no, I've decided. Im going to reach out, spread my wings, get my head screwed on straight. For too long now have I dilly-dallied around without a plan. Sure I thought I had a plan. I was going to work, because you have to. From there I would get money, which I would then use to buy things. You know, food, tshirts, wallhangings, gaz, and of course, shiny metals for my sweet. But you gotta look beyond that, you gotta want something more, something bigger, something that you can sit on top of in order to gain a better vantage point. Something like forty thousand dollars. Yep, forty Gs, I could buy a house, or a stock, or maybe even one of those new Nissan Zcars. You know, get my life on the right track.
The only thing is, do you think they'll let me not have to kill people? I could do the laundry and mending, or cook. I'd even be willing to be a motorcycle messenger or something. That would be sweet.
It's not that I'm against killing those people, I mean, we gotta do somethin' you know? It's just that, honestly, I'm worried I wouldn't be good at it...