traveldiary

we were literally still dancing as they kicked us out the door. Somehow managed to hail a taxi. Drifted in and out of sleep on the way home, all too aware of my early start tomorrow. London looks incredibly beautiful at this hour of the night, quite still and serene. The Thames reminded me of the opening passage of Heart of Darkness somehow, dark and mysterious under the bridges and forever flowing off into the distance.

went to bed a t 4am.  got up at 5am and started to read as always. I could only read for a few minutes, the train for Paris departed at 7:05. I showered and got on the 159 heading to Waterloo, it took only five minutes to get there. The secutity and immigration officers were unusually friendly that morning, I still had time to grab coffee and some newspapers for the trip. Coach 5 seat 79, I sat down to read again but I fell sleep.  

Trying to read my newspaper but keep falling asleep. A voice anounces in english and in french that we will soon be passing under the “manche”. trying to image how many metres under the sea we are. I first thought that the tunnel was built in the sea, and not under it.. Travelling’s such a waste of time. The actual travelling part I mean, the time between leaving where you were and getting to where you’re going. It’s empty, dead time, in-between time. I start to think about all the time in my life I’ve wasted. Like those moments when you think you’re about to sneeze but don’t. Trains always make me depressed.

Arriving in Paris. The smell of the Metro. I love it. One can smell it, when the air from the ventilation reaches you walking in the streets. It’s a warm, dusty smell. Spicy in a way. Passing Rue D’Alessia to get to Denfert Rochereau I nod to the homeless man lying on the pavement. It’s to the left of the postoffice. He has build his own little castle of cardboard. Right where the ventilation duct ends. It’s cold now, but the heat from the busy underground keeps him warm. At least on the back. He has lived there for as long as I remember. Toghether with the lion at Place Denfert Rochereau. The lion gets a nod as well. I run down the stairs to catch line number four. Destination: Montparnasse Bienvenue

I am exhausted, it may be due to the lack of sleep but I also feel exhilarated. Perhaps the change in routine or the attack on the senses makes me notice everything. I’m alert but I lost one hour. Where did it go? Is it suspended in the in-between time? Did it die? What is dead time, empty time anyway? I got lots of other hours coming up, live hours, full hours before I leave; between now and then. Does that mean my journey starts now? When will it end? I don’t have time to figure this out now. I’m hungry.

the next time i woke up i found myself in a bendy london bus. 3 guys getting nervous about the ticket inspectors. too late. still hungry. didnt rememeber anything since paris. only this story about the russian spy poisened with polonium 210 or something. have to be more careful netx time. I had a flashback to the Paris Metro, the doors opened and lots of people came in. A young guy with a big speaker box and mp3 player attached set up in the middle of the car. As soon as the train departed he started performing. It was a combination of rap, chants and folk music, loud enough to distract everyone. He jumped from the middle of train to the back, to the front and back to the middle while singing his song. It was hard to understand any of it but he kept screaming ‘merde’ like a mantra. For a moment I thought there was a connection between this guy and the russian spy. Shit, I missed my stop. 

The next morning I took the bus with Claire to Leeds. Every time I get the National Express I end up replaying the Divine Comedy song in my head, over and over. Each seat was taken, yet we were the only people talking. The only other sound was a teenager sat a few rows in front playing his music on speakerphone. Why do people feel the need to force their music upon others in public spaces? I can’t stand it. Then again, maybe he couldn’t stand our constant talking and laughing. We came up with 22 songs that feature the word ‘car’. In less than five hours we were up North. England is very small.

Leeds is a terrible and lonely place, cold and windy and scary which is nothing special, of course, everywhere in this country cold and windy and scary. I am always cold here. My coat is too thin for this weather – it is what they call here a summer coat, something to wear over a cotton dress for a walk at the countryside – not good enough to protect me from the snow. And I haven’t seen snow till I came here. At first it seemed nice and soft and quite exotic, but I realized that very soon it turns to a dirty mud and each step is a dangerous one. I walk at the city centre – not on the the high street but in and out of the old shops, within the arcades with the decorated windows, that sell useless stuff for the very, very old and the people who like to pretend that they are very, very rich. Of course there are no rich people in Leeds. It is Saturday evening and the first drunks wander around singing songs that I do not know; I am a bit scared, and I think that I look different, the streets are full of blonde girls shivering in their minidresses and sandals without tights and they give me the look ’she is mad’. Well I have dark hair and eyes and I wear boots and something that looks like a coat. I am here because my boyfriend lives here studying literature,english literature of course ( ”I know it’s a sad place but it is such a good uni,cheaper than London and I do not wish to serve moussaca to tourists all my life, then we’ll go to America, to New York”). I walk outside Hyde Park now, towards his room at the Halls of Residence where there is enough wine and heat. Today I’ll dream of the sea. When I’ll wake up, the streets will be full of vomit, excrements, broken glass and blood, stained packages of fish and chips and filthy kebabs. Hoping that the new snow will cover them all.