 london diary 1.16.01 Two And A Half Weeks This week's column was supposed to be my British version of the more infamous film "Nine and a Half Weeks" but there is little titillating to actually report on. Outside of a few sweet dates with a wonderful aussie bloke and a couple of rejected drunken "snogs" (my, the Brits have such a way of making intimacy actually sound attractive) this former date-a-holic seems to be slowing down. And you know what? It feels good. As the lovely producer of Stellargirl remarked to me once in a flash of brilliance, my frantic, man-eating ways could possibly have had something to do with my utter boredom and frustration with the life I left. Could it be true gentle readers? Is it possible that my fortnightly rhythm of meet-fuck-dump had a vague correlation with personal dissatisfaction? Could I, the queen of "insta- intimacy" (just add sex) have had deeper issues to sort out? Now, lest I get too cocky , I will remind myself that my seeming transformation has been in effect all of a handful of weeks. I will remind myself of Christine at sixteen, teased by her best friend's steady beau: "Who is it this week, girl? Change' em like socks!" But to counter that echoing voice I reply with an astonishing account of self-control. I, Christine, aged twenty-three and a half, turned down a kiss Saturday night. I did! At four am, completely pissed, staring into the face of an adorable British lad, I said in a relatively firm voice: No thanks See ya later Not interested. Indeed! Family lore tells the tale of flirtatious Christine, the four year old version, who came home from nursery school one day only to announce to the entire family that a boy had kissed me in the hallway of school that very afternoon. My (hopefully amused) mother asked me what I had done in return (a slap, a refusal, an ice -queen glare)? Why, I kissed him right back! I countered, at four years old as if it were the only natural choice. This tale was unfortunate foreshadowing for my poor mother, a tell-tale sign that her eldest had little inclination towards proper relationship patterns. But this Saturday night, under searching lips, something didn't feel natural. A kiss is a kiss- and London is London-- and i was suddenly bored and disinterested. I can feel in myself that a change is occurring, that a certain amount of restlessness in my is quieting. ("Piano, piano", of course). I feel it when I look at the grand grey facades marching across the view from my office window. I feel it in the chameleon lie weather that bemuses and strangely delights me. Standing in a tube station at the bottom of a steeply inclined escalator that waits to escort me recklessly into chaotic London streets I am curiously anchored, peaceful amongst the swirling, colorful masses of high- heeled boots and shiny briefcases, rooted like a finite pebble in the shining tower of Babel. In Philadelphia, a town possessing of some good and many unfathomably quirky qualities, anonymity for me consisted of staring at my feet in order to avoid the unanswerable queries of my friends; questions couched in terse assumptions of character, dress, look. "Who are you and Where are you going?" reverberates in the eyes of most Americans, even as we worship at the shrines of Keroac and Bukowski, for whom terms like "on the road to..." had different connotations. In London I am alone, virtually friendless with a shit dreary office job. And yet,a sensation of satisfaction is growing wildly inside me. In anonymity I have found relief, an excitement to build a life here from this base of a few changes of clothing and meager library consisting of a Thomas Hardy novel and London road atlas... It is just that- a bare minimalism of self, that allows me to run towards a new found liberty of spirit. It is the realization that here, in this teeming metropolis, the poor, the tired and the huddled masses don't have to yearn to be free... because in a strange twist of history this inexperienced, homesick American is finding loneliness oddly exhilarating. So yes, I know that by turning down a single kiss i haven't cosmically altered the desperate dramas of single women world-wide, but I will assert that waiting for a phone call in Philadelphia felt more icily imperative that it does here. And so, with excitement, curiosity and a healthy dose of "shit, what am I really doing", I plan my life here moment by moment. I think that tomorrow, I might sit in a pub with my nice aussie friend, and instead of looking over his shoulder for a more improved brand, I might instead glance out the window at the rain reflecting on the cobble stoned streets; then I'll look back and quietly give him my attention; 'cause i'll know that the next day I get to walk down the street alone. |
London's
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