The Rebound

I recently went through a breakup.  With my running club.  We had a good thing going — weekly track workouts followed by cheap beer, weekend getaway long runs in the mountains, the occasional karaoke night, long walks on the beach at sunset…  West Valley TC wasn’t just the track club next door.  We had something really special.  

My first days in London were spent running alone through busy city parks, listening to 90s playlists on shuffle, wondering what workout my teammates were doing that day and imagining them drinking $2 Tecates at the Mucky Duck without me. 

But a girl can only wallow in heartache for so long.  After about a week, I did what any modern lady would do when she’s on the rebound — I went to the internet.  Single White Female seeks Co-Ed Runners.  Must love trails, intervals workouts and beer.  Not that I was desperate, but the first search result of “Running club London” showed a workout posted for that Tuesday and I looked no further.   I left work early and went straight to the track.  

I saw spandex.  I saw IT bands being stretched and heavier trainers being switched out for lighter ones.  I saw two ponytailed women jogging clockwise in lane six and I let gravity take care of the rest.  Once I was in their orbit, things moved fast.  We did 800 meter repeats together with the rest of the team, we started talking about the weekly workout schedule and, before I knew it, we were talking about upcoming races and how I might fit into the team scoring.   And then the clothes came off (at a swimming pond after the workout).  I was a goner.  Head over heels.  I started imagining our future together, dawning their jersey, maybe we would even sing karaoke together one day.  

In the changing room, one of the women named Emma found a ribbon with their team colors.

“Look!” she said, and handed it to me.  “It’s a sign.”  It was meant to be.  I whistled the entire bike ride home, giddy and infatuated.  I emailed Emma as soon as I got back with all of my contact details, multiple exclamation marks and a smiley face.  Read: We are going to be best friends forever.  

I met them again on Sunday morning for the long run.   Our reunion was not quite as magical as I had hoped.  No one seemed particularly excited to see me — at least not as excited as I was to see them.  The group started running without acknowledging my presence at all and I tagged along, a little puppy trying to jump up into any conversation where I could sniff event a whiff of relatability.  

“Oh, you’re running the 1500 this weekend?  One of my old teammates was a really fast 1500 meter runner…”

Something had changed.  Where was the spark?  Was it something I said?  All my enthusiasm bubbles slowly fizzled into self-conscious foam and then simmered into an acidic judgementalism.  Suddenly everything they said sounded preposterous and notedly non-funny.  Who cares about your track times from three years ago?  Also, why isn’t anyone taking their shirts off?  It’s totally sports bra weather!  You call this a long run?  We’ve only gone eight miles!  You call this hilly?  That was a knoll.

And just like that, the flame was snuffed just as quickly as it had been ignited.  

Back to the internet.  The following Tuesday, a rival team had a workout on a different track.  I emailed Emma and said I would be working late so I wouldn’t be able to make it.  The new team ran 600 meter repeats and after the workout, they stretched!  Then they did a core strength routine!   I was head over heels all over again.  Just as I was giddily whistling my way out of the track to go home, one of the girls called out to me, “Hey! We’re going to the pub if you fancy!”  Hook.  Line.  Sinker.

The new team had a long run on Wednesday.  I counted down the hours at work until 6:00pm.  When I left the office, I opened my gym bag and my heart sank — I had forgotten my shoes.  I couldn’t go to practice without shoes.  But I couldn’t not go to practice.  That would be like a guy saying he had to bail on a second date because he forgot his wallet.  It would send all the wrong signals.   

So, despite the fact that the last time I was in Europe I was suckered into buying, not one, but two pairs of over-priced running shoes, and despite the fact that I purchased not one, not two, but three pairs of hideous lime green Sauconys for the sole purpose of avoiding having to buy shoes in the UK, and despite the fact that I have never been capable of deciding on a new pair of running shoes without at least four hours of due diligence research, on that Wednesday, I went straight to the Asics store, walked in the door, and bought the first pair of size 7.5 lightweight trainers that I saw on clearance.  The things we do for love…

The long run was just over 10 miles and included three decent hills.  I had several pleasant conversations with men and women in the group and I couldn’t help but notice certain promising signal words: “half marathon,” “hill sessions”, “relays”, “cross country nationals.”  This must be The One. 

About six miles in, coasting down a remote section of single track trails, two girls appeared out of no where and came flying past our group.   I looked up as they passed to see the unmistakable swinging ponytail of Emma and the other girl from the first team.  In a city of over a dozen parks and more than 150 miles of trails, what are the chances?   My faced flushed with cheater’s blush.  Had they seen me?  If so, why didn’t they say anything?  Were they spurned? Was the sprint pass supposed to be a counter slap in the face?

I saw them from afar a few more times that evening, always ducking behind trees and hiding my face in water fountains to avoid the it's-not-you-it's-me conversation.

After we finished the long run (and I managed to successfully dodge the awkward bullet with Emma), I went to the pub again with the new team. There was no Tecate and most certainly nothing available for £2.   There were no hops in the beer either but there was enough dry British sarcasm to make up for the lack of bitterness in my ale, so I was satisfied.  There’s no ring on my finger but I think I’m in for the long haul. 

The Rug

I have a knack for using my body and bike in the way that ants use their exoskeletons to transport oversized and complexly-shaped items for nest-making.

This is because I nest-build almost exclusively with nest items that I find on Craigslist.  (Or, here in London, Craigslist + Gumtree + Streetbank.)

I simply cannot bring myself to pay full price for a brand new nest item when I can feel in my heart (and see online) that somewhere out there (within biking distance) there is someone who is desperate to get rid of precisely the thing that I need.  It is a closed loop of supply and demand that is more satisfying than the sound of a lid snapping on a tupperware that is just the right size for your leftovers. Or at least equally satisfying.  

It's not even a question of budget anymore.  If I totaled all the time spent searching, contacting, coordinating, haggling, and address-hunting with Craigslisters, it would easily be triple the amount of hours I would need to work for any internet Ponzi scheme in order to make up for the 10% I’m saving by not getting all my housewares delivered directly from IKEA.   But the thought of perfectly functional lamps and picture frames and full-length mirrors being mercilessly condemned to landfills keeps me up at night.  (Unless I have my eye mask, in which case I am out like a light.)

Yesterday, I wanted a rug.  As destiny would have it, yesterday, Craigslister Olga of Miles End, London, wanted to get rid of her rug.  A triumphant horn sounded in the heavens.  

I finished my run at 11:30am and I had plans to meet a friend at 2:00pm and Miles End, according to Google, was only 41 minutes away.  Cue: triumphant horn #2.

The full celestial chorus broke out in song when, at the exact moment I realized that I was starving upon arrival to Olga’s house, I saw that she lived above a supermarket which, not only had a convenient ATM out front, but also sold delicious* prepackaged egg sandwiches for £1.  All the stars were aligning; this day had surely been blessed.

(*Actual level of deliciousness may have been influenced by extreme levels of hunger.)

Olga was not, of course, a serial murderer.  (Seriously people, that happened like one time, can we please stop being paranoid about it?)  She, of course, had the rug.  She said, “Here you go.”  I said, “Thank you.”  And, when she stood in the doorway looking from my bike helmet to the five-foot rug and then back at my bike helmet, I said, “This might take a minute.  You don’t have to watch.”

And Olga closed the door.

At my disposal:

• 1 drawstring bag
• 1 extra shoelace
• 1 mini carabiner
• 1 jacket
• Set of keys on a keyring
• 1 crumpled egg sandwich box

There are a few important factors to bear in mind when Ant Hauling. (These factors, by the way, I do not claim to have deduced from reason, but have learned from firsthand personal experiences involving lamp shades, wine cases and shelving units.):

• Object must not obstruct vision or cause the helmet to tilt in a way that might obstruct vision
• Object must be situated in a position narrow enough to fit in between cars when lane-splitting
• Object must not sway weight in any direction enough to cause loss of balance
• Attachment of object must not restrict airflow around the neck

On my way home, I cast sideways prideful glances to cars and fellow bikers, keeping my ears piqued for a pedestrian to exclaim from the sidewalk, “Wow! Look out that girl hauling that rug!  How did she manage to attach it to herself so efficiently?”

Yes, I took a selfie while biking with a rug and listening to Google navigator give directions.
No, I was not able to capture the full complexity of the strapping arrangement.  

If the passerbys weren't expressing their awe, I still heard the angel choir singing of my heroism all the way down Miles End road until, at one point, I started to feel a strange sensation in my right thumb.  Or rather, I noticed that I wasn’t feeling any sensation in my thumb.  I shook my hand floppy and managed to summon a few tingles, but before that I hadn’t realized how much the drawstring was pressing on my right shoulder.  

A couple minutes later, the only sound to be heard was the voice I often equate with the voice of God -- Mrs. Google Maps Navigator.

“Continue straight on CANNON ROAD for a half mile, then turn left.”

The numbness had spread throughout my right hand which I was giving the floppy shake out at every safe opportunity (although this did not seem to be increasing blood flow much).  

“Turn left.  Then, turn left.”

That doesn’t make sense lady, there is no left here.

“Continue on to WHITECHAPEL.  Then, Make - a - you - turn.”

No, I’m not doing that.

“GPS signal lost.”

Marvelous.

When the tingling rose all the way to my right bicep, I wondered if I should pull over.  But I carried on, flopping my entire arm out to the side, no longer concerned about what the general public must think of the girl with a massive rug strapped to her back, making U-turns on her bike while performing a one-sided Flapping Funky Chicken dance.

At long last (maybe ten minutes), as if illuminated by a divine sunbeam, I saw The Drunken Monkey -- a dim sum restaurant I recognized! I was close to my house! The clouds opened to the resounding trumpets once again, playing a version of Handel's Messiah with the words changed to "Drunken Monkey! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"   Another ten minutes later and me, my rug and my dangling corpse arm rolled up to the front of my apartment building. I lifted the weight of the rug with my left hand from behind to ease the burden on my right shoulder and the joyous circulation flowed in all it's excruciatingly tingly warmth.

Tonight I will sleep soundly (with or without my eye mask), next to my rescued rug, dreaming of the hair dryers and curtains I might save from garbage damnation tomorrow.

London Week 1

Moving to another country is sort of like drowning.  Your initial reaction is to panic and start thrashing everywhere in wild hope of grasping some line of control.  There are duvet covers to buy and closets to organize and things to plug into things that plug into funny shaped outlets and not nearly enough seconds in a day to catch a breath in between.  But at some point there is sweet surrender.  The thrashing stops and suddenly you realize that, if you breathe slowly, you will float.  Not only are you not dying, but you are just fine.  Turns out the current flows on whether or not you are accomplishing all the things you supposedly absolutely needed to do.  

So, despite the fact that I still don’t have a proper bank account or a proper phone or my own towel or tube of toothpaste, I can still say that I’ve done all the things the universe needed me to do during my first week in London.  Not the least of which is learning to speak British by using words like “proper” in common sentences.  I also incorporate phrases like “lorry load” and “by dint of” when I can.   And, obviously, I say “cheers” at every possible occasion.

I learned that gurchins are pickles and pickle is chutney and a marrow is a giant courgette which is not, by the way, an eggplant.  I have no idea what piccalilli is but it is delicious and something like a chutney spread.  I have no idea what marmite is but it is disgusting and also some sort of spreadable paste.   Jellied eel is not a British term for for another kind of chutney -- it is literally eel that has been jellied.  And it is delicious.

                             

Eel with Vinegar

Aaron and Charlie are females, Sasha and Shannon are males.  
“To Let” is “For Rent”, not to be confused with a public restroom sign that’s missing a letter.

San Francisco Toilet

London To Let

I believe a “stupid cow” (pronounced “shtewpid cow”) is either someone who is still in the crosswalk when the light turns red or potentially another way of saying “blonde American girl carrying a giant box across the street and blocking the way of a cab driver who is in a hurry.”  It was difficult to tell from the context.

I got lost on average 100% of the times I stepped foot out the door, which is pretty impressive for someone with a GPS-enabled device.  I conducted a PhD level research investigation comparing stock, quality and prices of several local grocery marts.  And, even with the little “you’re drowning!” voice in my ear buzzing about emails and hours of sleep, I managed to watch every World Cup game, spectate a cross-country meet, drink at least two dozen different British beers (of which four were actually decent!) and play a little guitar/ukulele.

I’ll get around to the rest eventually...  

Farewells

“Dude.  Where the heck are you?”

No reply.

It was 5:05pm and my boss promised that our meeting would start at 5:00pm sharp and last no longer than five minutes.  He said it was urgent. 

But I knew it could not possibly be more urgent than the reason I was in a rush to leave: it was my last track practice before my move to London (where there is no such thing as track practice with post-workout $2 Tecates).  I’ve compared Tuesday track practice to Sunday mass and I would have a hard time disputing anyone who might accuse me of having a cultish obsession with going.  My teammates are my brethren and Tuesday was my last chance to say goodbye.  Explaining to my boss why I needed to go to practice would have been like a toddler explaining to an adult why he needs to sleep with his binky.  It’s just mine and I love it and you’ll never understand.  So I didn’t mention practice but I had made it clear that I needed to leave for an extremely important appointment. 

While he blathered on about the key differences in US vs EMEA markets and other notedly un-urgent nonsense, I was not-so-subtly packing up my things from the conference room and mentally mapping out possible shortcuts I could take on my bike route to the track.  He was still talking when I actually walked out of the conference room, nodding in agreement to what I hoped were his concluding remarks and thinking, I can take the sidewalk up 3rd street, cut over at Harrison and —

“SURPRISE!!”

iPhone cameras.  Applause.  A giant “Bon Voyage!” banner.  A full catered banquet of tacos.  Thirty Ta-da! faces beaming at me.

Before I could even make the palm-on-heart “You really shouldn’t have” gesture, I was being presented with presents and a card signed by all of my coworkers.

“Speech!  Speech!  Speech!” They gleamed. 

My palm instead went straight to my forehead for the “Oh sh*t” gesture and I smiled the squinty-eyed guilt grin of a child unwrapping a book from his grandma for Christmas.  “Wow, this is so nice… But the thing is… I’ve gotta go…”

“We know!  That’s why we’re here!  We’ll miss you!”  They glowed. 

“No, what I mean is… I actually have to leave right now…”  They dimmed.  I cooked in the simmering awkwardness of the collective confusion and disappointment for a few minutes and even managed to eat half a taco and say a few thank you's.  Then, while everyone was sufficiently distracted piling food on their plates, I slipped out through the hallway.

The thing about moving is that it is an inherently unbalanced event.  A person is expected to take the world they have built up, one piece at a time, over months and years and then deconstruct the entire thing in a matter of days.  Collateral damage is inevitable.  You spend the few pre-departure weeks floating between procrastination and denial, telling yourself it’s more important to enjoy your last days with the people you love than to waste precious time fretting about the logistics of canceling Comcast subscriptions and fitting sentimentally valuable coffee mugs into your duffle bag.  

And then suddenly you have 72 hours before you leave the country and there are still three cabinets full of old mason jars.  

I got back from practice on Tuesday night with a nice $2 Tecate buzz and started doing the math.  I could fit maximum 10 jars in my backpack.  Once I factored in the miscellaneous pots, plants, fishbowls and other sundries that had -- at some unknown moment in the past two years -- furtively sidled into my ownership below my radar, I had a at least 15 backpack loads of stuff to get rid of.  The donation center was only a few blocks away but 15 round-trips would take at least an hour and the center closed at 7:00pm.  Fantasies of arson began to play in my mind’s eye.  Just as I was cackling at the thought of my laundry purgatory lamp shade going up in flames, another idea came to me.  And by 6:45pm the following night, my apartment was essentially empty.

I have three websites to thank for this spring cleaning miracle: Pinterest, Craigslist and Songza.  I thank Pinterest for making masons jars 2014’s trendiest dish.  I thank Craigslist for the creation of the “Free stuff” category.  And I thank Songza, for providing the bumpin’ “Moving Out” soundtrack that I played while enjoying a cold beer and a bowl of popcorn, watching dozens of thrilled strangers raid my trash for treasures.

They came in droves.  Little Asian ladies packed roller suitcases to the brim with spices, half empty bottles of olive oil, and mini cans of ginger ale that I never got around to using to make whisky-gingers.  The hipsters didn’t care that the mason jars still had polenta and Craisins in them — they gladly shoved them into their burlap backpacks, along with with my yoga mat and foam roller and crusty paint brushes.  I made everyone who found something they liked also take something they didn’t like (e.g. the printer, the paperback books, the leather boots) and, like a picnic attacked by an ant swarm, the only thing left after they all scuttled away were some pickles and a few plastic bags. 

At one point, I had ambitions of hosting a send-off party for myself on the 4th of July.  But when I no longer had any dishes or paper towels or ginger ale to mix with the whiskey (which I later realized had also been snagged in the raid without me noticing), the prospect of throwing a party felt unreasonably complicated.  And the prospect of generating any more trash on this earth felt downright sinful.  

So instead I opted to skip town on my last day and go spend quality friend and family time in Marin.  No to-do lists, no errands, no cleaning, no stress-eating raw tortillas from the fridge while rearranging contents of suitcases.  Just bikes and trails and dogs and wine and drunk-eating Ben and Jerry's Milk and Cookies straight from the tub.  

I saved the trip to Comcast for the 11th hour, expecting the worst.  It was, as predicted, the worst.  (The story is not even worth telling, but I’ll share the photos of the good bill-paying citizens of San Francisco, commiserating in our mutual loathing for this country’s scummiest company.)

At 2:30pm, I closed the gate on Sumner street for the last time and attempted to inhale all the air of home, like I could somehow vacuum pack my deconstructed world into my chest so I wouldn’t have to leave it behind.  But, just like my red hoodie and my trombazoo and my stuffed E.T. wouldn’t fit in my suitcase, the breath was overfilling my lungs.  I exhaled.  Then I got in the car and drove away.  

Good Riddance San Francisco

Really San Francisco?  You couldn’t muster a single gust of Bay wind today?  You chose this very afternoon to shake off your June gloom?  You couldn’t find a single grouch to glare at me on the street or a single car to swerve into my bike lane?  Today of all days, you just had to flaunt all your blue sky splendor, all your smiley Californianess.  Not even a whiff of urine on Market Street?  Suddenly it’s all rising sourdough and eucalyptus?

Well I don’t even care.  Those two hours I spent tracing through your coastal mountain trails this morning?  Meant nothing to me.  I didn’t even like that feeling of the sun on my back while I cruised my bike to the corner mart. You can keep my friends and entertain them with your silly music festivals and tacos and hoppy beer.  You think I'm going to pout just because I hear people talking about camping trips and rooftop jam sessions and barbecues at the park? Think again.

Don't think I'm going to swoon over your hilly vistas. Don't be so vain as to imagine that I'll be dreaming about your ocean cliff winds in my face. You don't have my heart strings wrapped around your little peninsula. My heart strings are my own!

Go ahead -- splay your bridges in all their glory!  Twinkle your glittery golden skyline all night, see if I care.  See if I snap a single faux-vignette photo of your summer peaches or cookie ice cream sandwiches.  Won’t happen. Cookie ice cream sandwiches are stupid.

Good riddance.

Lucky Charmed Life

Am I the only one who thinks that Lucky Charms is perfectly ratioed?  Apparently there are entire businesses and social networks dedicated to the poo-pooing of the TOBs (“toasted oat bits") and lamenting the tragedy of wasting any oral real estate or chewing energies on something so bland and uninspiring as a non-marshmallow.  

I am staunchly anti the anti TOB movement (which I suppose makes me Pro Oat) -- not because I hate rainbows and not because I find it ridiculous that people form organizations based on the poo-pooing of a shapeless grain.  I am opposed to the concept of an bland-less cereal on a philosophical level.  I see the entire situation as a metaphor, or perhaps a manifestation of a fundamental flaw in modern society’s understanding of Happiness.  (Yes, I took it there.)

In cereal and in life, I believe that Happiness is comprised of exactly 90% normal and 10% magical deliciousness.  

I spent the morning of my 25th birthday slurping down a bowl of Lucky Charms while ruminating on this thought and feeling nostalgically grateful for all the little toasted oat bits in my life.  E.g.: 

• Every weekday, I perform the same morning choreography: I hoist my bike to my shoulder with my right hand and step precariously down the narrow semi-spiraling staircase of my apartment, grabbing my helmet and keys hanging from the hooks on the wall with my left hand.  I take 8th to Folsom to 5th to Bryant -- pedaling in between each of the seven traffic lights at the precise speed (perfected after a year of practiced study) that allows me to roll through all of them without ever coming to a full stop.

• Every weekday afternoon, I eat my lunch out of the same giant red bowl.  Whatever food I scavenge — burritos, sandwiches, popcorn, leftover pasta -- gets dissected, anatomized, and tossed with spinach in the red bowl. 

• Every Tuesday -- regardless of rain, wind, work deadlines, feelings of bloatedness from too much lunch in the red bowl -- I go to track practice at Kezar stadium.  Afterwards I go to the same dive bar with my teammates and I drink one $2 Tecate with lime from Red The Bartender who puts it on the counter when he sees me walk in with a “Here ya go, sweetheart.”  
• I listen to the same few hundred songs on my iPod (mostly from mixed CDs that were burned between 2000 and 2009).  
• I wear the same two jackets — a purple parka and a red hoodie — pretty much every day. 
• I make a cup of tea every night before bed.

These rituals are my daily staples.  They are the hearty toasted oats of my life.  It is their mundaneness that makes them substantive.  It is their unremarkability that make the occasional pot-of-gold moments worth savoring.   My life is comparable to Lucky Charms in many ways -- namely the part about being Charmed and Lucky.  I try not to take for granted the fact that, relative to many people in the world, my life is a bowl of just marshmallows.  

But that said, in bizzarro San Franciscoland where the tap water is tainted with overachiever hormones that turn the youth into facial-hairless CEOs in their 20s, even my charmed life can seem subpar.  At age 25, Mark Zuckerberg had 300 million users on Facebook.  The 24-year-old who invented Snapchat is already worth $1 billion.  

Of course I can always remind myself that at 25 Warren Buffett was a salesman in Omaha, Tina Fey was working at the YMCA and Tim Allen was arrested for toting cocaine through an airport.  And, to be honest, I could give a damn about what anyone was or was not doing at my age.  There will be Mark Zuckerbergs ahead of me and Tim Allens below me at every stage of life.

If I can have marshmallow days for 10% of the rest of my life, that’s enough for me.  And the fact that I can still eat Lucky Charms for breakfast as a 25-year-old bodes well. 

(For the record, my birthday was a weeks-worth of pot-of-gold moments.)

For the record

Why do old people take pictures?
I’ve always assumed that there are two phases in life.

Phase 1: Picture taking
Phase 2: Picture reminiscing

I’d say most of my imaginations about being old involve sitting by the fireside, leafing through photo albums and reading all of my old journals, finally culminating a lifetime of thoughts and experiences into sweet sage wisdom.  (In my head, the photo albums and journals are actual books stacked next to my armchair, although I suppose it’s more realistic to assume I would be swiping at a screen or batting my eyelids at a hologram or something… but that’s not so romantic.)  This is the scene I am thinking about when I snap a picture of the sun setting on a river or of a pretty plate of french fries.  It's that old woman, wrinkly grey-haired me, that I am preserving all of these moments for. 

So naturally I am confused to see anyone over the age of 70 fumbling with manual zoom lenses and peering at the world through a viewfinder.  

This is a photo I sneakily took of the old man in front of me on the plane.  He must have taken at least three dozen photos from his window:

When are you going to look back at that photo, sir?  What are you still collecting memories for? It seems to me a bit like pouring water into a bucket with a hole in the bottom.  But I’ve never understood the things old people do — how could I possibly?  I won’t have the chance to culminate sweet sage wisdom about The Meaning Of It All until I’ve stopped taking photos myself. 

The sole motive behind all of my picture-taking (and writing, for that matter) is a latent fear of memory loss.  Creative expression, artistic value, reflection, emotional catharsis, social sharing etc. are mostly happy byproducts.  There are plenty of things I document that are never edited or posted, that are neither insightful nor beautiful.  I must have a Russian novel’s worth of the world’s most mundane lists in my Google Drive folder labeled “Writing.”

e.g.

Mar 22, 2012

-morning run in the park

-last day before taper, feeling fit

-flat tire on the way to work

-called Ali about travel plans

-Dinner out with the roommates.  Japanese restaurant downtown.  Way overpriced.

-Started Infinite Jest

Keeping these records is a fruitless exercise that I can’t stop doing any more than a baby can stop sucking on a pacifier.  Rationally, I am aware that even wrinkly grey-haired me won't be able to juice any wisdom from 80 years of done to-do lists.  But when I go for a period without documenting and then try to think back on what I’ve missed, my lack of recall frightens me.  It's like a small segment has been erased from my timeline.  

Traveling only intensifies the impulse — since each experience is so singular and fleeting, they are even less likely to stick in brain storage.  I just returned to California after spending a few weeks in London and I can’t sleep for the itch to quickly capture the quicksand memories of my time in the city. (Also my body still thinks it’s 11:00 A.M. even though it is 3:00 A.M.)

The first person I met in London was my host Heath.  Heath looked like what Benjamin Franklin would have looked like after a couple years developing a moderate cocaine habit.  He was bald on top with a few strands of oily locks falling just short of his shoulders.  His wiry circular spectacles matched his wiry body frame — all cheek bones and elbows and one long pinky fingernail.  One cat was called Zipper.  The others scampering around the house were never formally introduced to me.  Heath had the Australian knack for leaving “h”s off of words like “he” and ending his sentences with rhetorical questions.  But if not a scholar, Heath was certainly a gentleman — helping with my bags, pouring me a cup of tea, and offering a detailed verbal treasure map of the neighborhood’s best pubs: “You’ll go out just to the corner here and then carry on past the little statue at the end of the main road.  There’ll be a cigarette store to your right and then, if you keep on ahead past the old fire station, you can’t miss it just there.”

According to AirBnB, my second host was named “Sylvie,” but when I arrived at the two-bedroom mini-apartment in Marylebone, I was met by six Italians and one Scott, none of whom introduced themselves by that name.  The Italians were young, mostly gay, all pierced and dyed some shade of citrus.  As far as I could tell, they all shared one kingsize bed.  The Scott was maybe in his 60s, also gay, and—while the noisy vie bohème-ers passed around bowls of pasta and marijuana in the kitchen—he kept mostly to himself in the storage-closet-turned-bedroom, except to occasionally venture out to refill his champagne glass with chilled Prosecco and make a nostalgic and endearing comment about the beauty of youth. 

Marianella liked to ask me the meaning of English words like “prancing” and “glitter” that she heard in songs.  Nícolas like to tilt his head and say “Awww” every time I spoke.  Alberto liked to call me Darling and insisted on giving me a haircut — for which I was, admittedly, long overdue.  I’d like to say that was the first time I let a man shave my head under the auspices of a free haircut…. but that would not be true.  

June 2008:

This time was less drastic:

People say that London has no soul and I think I know what they mean.  There are simply too many types of people to talk about the “Ethos” of the city in any coherent way.  As a whole, it is a ruthless place.  It is the kind of place that might knock you down and mow you over if you don’t have your wits about you (literally, in the case of bikers, and figuratively in the case of anyone earning a sub-executive salary who might wake up one morning to find themselves flat broke).  But as much as people moan about the weather and the prices and the Tube, I think people find London’s grandeur liberating.  Even I — the sniper’s eye for anything even remotely resembling a cliché — couldn’t pin down a stereotypical Londoner.  

Coming from San Francisco, where literally e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g has been stamped, labeled, satirized, ironically iconized, and hashtagged, the slightly dizzying cosmopolitopia of London was actually a breath of fresh air.  There is no headlining war between Mainstream vs. Counterculture vs. Trendy vs. Hipster etc etc etc…. No one seems to give a damn.

London says, “I don’t care who you are - stay to the right of the escalator, the left of the bus lane and get the hell out of the way.”