Dear London,
We need to talk. Last night you had me in bed by 11:30pm. Now, I don’t know what kind of thoughts are running through your debauchery-ridden mind, but before I start getting some sort of horrid, reprehensible reputation, I need to set the record straight. You really should know that I’m just not that kind of girl.
11:30pm on a Saturday and I’m back in for the night. Hair in a ponytail, dressed in my silk sheep-print pajamas, propped up against a pile of merlot pillows, reading through my emails and sipping tea. Of course, just to ensure that I get the full effect of you and your pal the universe giving me the finger, I seem to have email upon email of ‘wish you were’ messages touting shopping, patios, swimming, cocktails, and the like, accompanied by a series of text messages popping up throughout the night, with the kind of progressive misspellings and incohereny indicative of a wild night at the Blue Bamboo.
I know you’re commonly known as an “insider’s city,” but really, darling, it’s been almost eight months. Aren’t you ready to let me in yet? This tea sipping, correspondence on weekends just won’t do anymore. I have no interest in hearing the mocking and pitying drawls of, “it’s so nice to have those weekends sometimes”. Yes, it is admittedly very nice sometimes, and those times are more commonly grouped together and referred to as “retirement”.
A recent chat with a friend who doesn’t live in the U.K., but periodically passes through on business cemented how much you’re shunning me, London. “So what are we going to do when I’m in town?” says the friend. A slight wave of panic washes over me. “Shopping?” I tentatively suggest, as his penchant for Hermes ties flashes through my mind. Friend proceeds to excitedly rattle off his list of preferred Bond Street and Mayfair boutiques and I listen thoughtfully. “Maybe you should be showing me around” I meekly suggest. This seems to be well received, and the next thing I know I’m being recommended the hot new Japanese steakhouse in town. Although I don’t eat meat, I’m assured the chef will be willing to whip up something for me. At this point I’m hanging my head in shame. Shouldn’t I be making these suggestions instead of frantically trying to jot all this down onto a post-it note with chocolate brown eyeliner?
A few weeks ago, an acquaintance passing through town en route to Europe tells me about her friends who have just moved to my corner of the city. They can't join us for Pad Thai in Portabello Road because they’re dining at Nobu in Canary Wharf. I self-consciously rub my forehead, where I’m sure the slight tingling can be attributed to the words “social pariah” which have been imprinted there with a cattle branding iron.
Since arriving, I seem to have become destined to be your pathetic tag-along. The girl whose social life has all the sparkle and lustre of the gently-battered lace ballet flats she steps into for schlepping around the city when it seems wasteful to bother with pretty shoes. After all, if a four inch black patent Steve Madden heel clicks on the cobblestones and no one’s around, does it make a sound?
London, my darling, I’m more than a little disheartened by you constantly pulling the velvet rope closed in front of me and leaving me out in the cold. Rather, I would be, if I were close enough to the velvet rope to be able to see it. Although, I’m sure one of my out of town friends could inform me of its precise location.
Disheartened as I am, I’m not quite ready to give up on you yet. However, if I’m not too busy and preoccupied with a rigorous social agenda to be penning you an entirely different letter in the coming months, and our troubles with intimacy haven’t dissipated, I fear we may be destined to part ways.
Let me in, or I’m getting the hell out.
Sincerely,
Snubbed, disgruntled, and in bed drinking tea.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
Monday, 2 June 2008
flux.
A conversation prompted by some sudden life-changing news of an acquaintance led a friend and I to pause and reflect our current situations in life in relation to where we thought we’d be at this age. I’d forgotten about my plans and expectations until badgered unwittingly into reflection. About five years, I thought I pretty much knew how things would end up.
---
With my undergraduate diploma still tucked under my arm, I bid a fond farewell to my university friends, with hugs for all punctuated by one or two tasteful tears. There’s inexplicably no luggage, or furniture to move: ah yes, it’s been seen to, sent ahead. Carrying only my purse, framed diploma, and congratulatory bouquet of flowers I step aboard the train and wave farewell to my beaming parents.
One year later.
I’m living in a small one-bedroom flat in Montreal, just on the edge of the old part of the city. It’s in old brick building adorned with black wrought iron balconies and fire escapes zig-zagging over the exterior. I live with my cat, Mia, and the terrier I adopted upon moving to the city. He is somewhat pretentiously named after a famous novelist. The apartment is small and unassuming, but sleek. Dark wood floors throughout, and lilac walls in the bedroom offset by gauzy white curtains and an antique vanity. The living room houses two crisp off-white linen armchairs and a cherry wood writing desk facing out the balcony window looking over the cobbled streets below. The kitchen looks mostly unused apart from the mail and some magazines on the table and an unnecessarily elaborate espresso machine on the counter. The cat and dog’s stainless steel food bowls are neatly arranged against one wall.
I’m finishing off my Masters and moving into full time employment. Basically, I’m transitioning my university placement as an arts magazine journalist into my livelihood. I do most of my work – writing and researching – from my laptop around the city. My pretentiously-named dog often accompanies me around the cobbled-streets of Old Montreal and basks in the sun at my feet while I work on the tiny round tables of various café patios. In the winter, we move indoors and he wears a little red knit sweater. I like to work out of the house and in the city, especially in the old quarter, because it gives me a chance to work on my French with the locals.
There’s a boy. We don’t live together, but we plan to in a few years. We met during our undergrad and planned to move here to be together. In a few years, we plan on buying a town house in the city and live on the top floor while converting the rest into a few apartments for an investment. On weekend mornings we go for long winding walks through the cobbled streets of old Montreal with the pretentious terrier. We spend time perusing organic produce and tiny jars of artichokes and pesto at the market. As we leave the market he holds a paper bag of hand-labelled condiments, fruit, and fresh leafy basil poking out the top. I clasp the terrier’s lead in one hand, his hand in the other. At night we go to galleries, the theatre, and smoky jazz lounges.
My friends start receiving degrees and promotions, they get engaged, get married, and have baby showers. Everything follows a smooth progression, and I arrive at each graduation, engagement party, wedding, and baby shower with bright eyes, a big smile, and a beautifully wrapped giftbox the size of a compact car. The events take place, but only exist as ceremonies, gifts and champagne toasts. This is life; we’ve arrived. Barring the organic progression through the checklist of life accomplishments, everything is stable and safe nothing is uncertain or in flux.
---
I watch a rarely-seen tear slide down my father’s cheek and hear my mother choke back tears as she pushes a card into my hands. My laptop has just disappeared down the conveyor belt into an xray machine and I stand in my stocking feet, holding my butter-soft Nine West boots in my hand. The guard taps his magnetic wand into the gloved palm of his hand. Hot tears I didn’t know were in me, well up in my eyes as I feel my dad’s arms trembling when he wraps them around me. It’s awfully far away, my mother says. I can’t look back over my shoulder as I walk though the metallic arch and collect my bags. As the plane takes off, I look down at Pearson Airport disappearing beneath us, and Toronto twinkling gold around her and think of how many times the descent into Pearson has meant coming home. The hot tears are creeping back again, their unfamiliarity stinging the corners of my eyes.
I’m awakened in the morning by a stewardess’ hand on my shoulder as she shakes me gently. We’re landing. Groggily I pull myself into an upright position. Classy way to start my adult life, I think, as I recall waking to a jolt of turbulence a few hours ago and upon remembering that I was in a metal tube hovering above nothing but ocean, reaching for what was apparently one too many sleeping pills. I hope I wasn’t drooling on myself when she woke me.
I drag myself and my three suitcases from the airport into the middle of the city getting them stuck in the turnstiles at various underground stations. Puffy-eyed, groggy, and trying to rinse the pills and in-flight wine out of my system with bottles of water, I’ve arrived. Here I am, London. About a month and a half away from being broke, with no place to live and a second interview for an unpaid internship next week. The future’s looking rosy.
Seven months later.
I’m living in a studio flat the approximate size of a shoe in the northwest quarter of the city. My street is lined with charming stone townhouses although the one housing my flat is the definitely the least enviable. Fortunately there are some well-placed trees and hedges obscuring it. Inside, a funky metal clock adorns one of the lilac walls. It’s sat at a quarter to two so long that a thin layer of dust coats the hands. When I sleep on the right side of the bed, I’m careful not to bump my head on the kitchen counter when getting up in the morning. The flat is too small for a cat, a terrier, and most certainly for a pretentious name assigned to either. My window overlooks an overgrown backyard which, when covered in ivy in the summer, looks almost quaint. The window panes quiver when the trains from the London underground pass by, on the above-ground stretch of track a short distance away. The kitchenette looks mostly unused apart from a simple kettle and a stout blue and white teapot.
I spend, what seems to be, most waking hours at my office just outside the city, or on a train to or from the office. I work for a prominent publishing house, in the marketing department. The internship there turned into a permanent position after seven days. It comes with perks – some nice travel to Europe here and there – but on a daily basis it seems to offer more in the way of stress and a long commute. The office is open-concept: bright and sunny, complete with a gym, massage suite, library, restaurant, café, and rooftop terrace. I spend spare moments at my desk contemplating this self-contained bubble and longing for some reason to run out the front doors and feel the well-worn pavement beneath my feet and the sun upon my hair. The smokers get their fix atop the building surrounded by potted ferns and bistro-style tables. The building has been designed so not even they and their carcinogens have a reason to leave the perfectly-constructed bubble.
There’s a boy. We see each other several times a week. We commute in exactly opposite directions. Everything seems to revolve around train schedules, commuter routes, and engineering-related delays. Things are kept fun and uncomplicated. We go to the theatre, the cinema, and on weekend mornings to the breakfast place with the best scrambled eggs in the city. We eat crepes and drink wine in Nice. I watch him play the Blackjack tables in Monte Carlo and he watches me kick off my sandals and step into the sea at Cannes.
I miss my friends from home terribly and worry that they’ve forgotten about me since I’ve moved away. I miss the student social life and having a full social calendar. I often think about the half-completed and ultimately discarded grad school and journalism school application forms. I articulate this and other anxieties to my fellow ex-patriot: the only person I know in the country from home. Although she lives hours away, we talk at least twice a day and I feel like she’s always close by. She listens to my regrets and uncertainties and helps keep me sane. In turn, I listen to her tears and sadness about a broken heart, family issues, and post-graduation angst. My friends are all succeeding in remarkable ways, but their successes are scattered amongst less celebratory events. Everything seems complicated and ever-changing. Heartbreak, health scares, infidelity, birth control slips, dating and career stresses are just as prevalent as promotions, graduations, engagements, and world travels. Events are marked by consequences and repercussions, not just gift cards, toasts, and flowers. It’s too easy to be the happy bringer of gifts in times of triumphs. It’s the times in between where the offerings of advice, words of comfort, and reservation of judgment mean something more.
Apparently there’s no arrival, as such. The stasis we assumed marked adulthood doesn’t exist. The only consistence seems to be the constant state of flux. It’s a little frightening, but comforting at the same time because if we had already arrived, we’d have nowhere left to go.
---
With my undergraduate diploma still tucked under my arm, I bid a fond farewell to my university friends, with hugs for all punctuated by one or two tasteful tears. There’s inexplicably no luggage, or furniture to move: ah yes, it’s been seen to, sent ahead. Carrying only my purse, framed diploma, and congratulatory bouquet of flowers I step aboard the train and wave farewell to my beaming parents.
One year later.
I’m living in a small one-bedroom flat in Montreal, just on the edge of the old part of the city. It’s in old brick building adorned with black wrought iron balconies and fire escapes zig-zagging over the exterior. I live with my cat, Mia, and the terrier I adopted upon moving to the city. He is somewhat pretentiously named after a famous novelist. The apartment is small and unassuming, but sleek. Dark wood floors throughout, and lilac walls in the bedroom offset by gauzy white curtains and an antique vanity. The living room houses two crisp off-white linen armchairs and a cherry wood writing desk facing out the balcony window looking over the cobbled streets below. The kitchen looks mostly unused apart from the mail and some magazines on the table and an unnecessarily elaborate espresso machine on the counter. The cat and dog’s stainless steel food bowls are neatly arranged against one wall.
I’m finishing off my Masters and moving into full time employment. Basically, I’m transitioning my university placement as an arts magazine journalist into my livelihood. I do most of my work – writing and researching – from my laptop around the city. My pretentiously-named dog often accompanies me around the cobbled-streets of Old Montreal and basks in the sun at my feet while I work on the tiny round tables of various café patios. In the winter, we move indoors and he wears a little red knit sweater. I like to work out of the house and in the city, especially in the old quarter, because it gives me a chance to work on my French with the locals.
There’s a boy. We don’t live together, but we plan to in a few years. We met during our undergrad and planned to move here to be together. In a few years, we plan on buying a town house in the city and live on the top floor while converting the rest into a few apartments for an investment. On weekend mornings we go for long winding walks through the cobbled streets of old Montreal with the pretentious terrier. We spend time perusing organic produce and tiny jars of artichokes and pesto at the market. As we leave the market he holds a paper bag of hand-labelled condiments, fruit, and fresh leafy basil poking out the top. I clasp the terrier’s lead in one hand, his hand in the other. At night we go to galleries, the theatre, and smoky jazz lounges.
My friends start receiving degrees and promotions, they get engaged, get married, and have baby showers. Everything follows a smooth progression, and I arrive at each graduation, engagement party, wedding, and baby shower with bright eyes, a big smile, and a beautifully wrapped giftbox the size of a compact car. The events take place, but only exist as ceremonies, gifts and champagne toasts. This is life; we’ve arrived. Barring the organic progression through the checklist of life accomplishments, everything is stable and safe nothing is uncertain or in flux.
---
I watch a rarely-seen tear slide down my father’s cheek and hear my mother choke back tears as she pushes a card into my hands. My laptop has just disappeared down the conveyor belt into an xray machine and I stand in my stocking feet, holding my butter-soft Nine West boots in my hand. The guard taps his magnetic wand into the gloved palm of his hand. Hot tears I didn’t know were in me, well up in my eyes as I feel my dad’s arms trembling when he wraps them around me. It’s awfully far away, my mother says. I can’t look back over my shoulder as I walk though the metallic arch and collect my bags. As the plane takes off, I look down at Pearson Airport disappearing beneath us, and Toronto twinkling gold around her and think of how many times the descent into Pearson has meant coming home. The hot tears are creeping back again, their unfamiliarity stinging the corners of my eyes.
I’m awakened in the morning by a stewardess’ hand on my shoulder as she shakes me gently. We’re landing. Groggily I pull myself into an upright position. Classy way to start my adult life, I think, as I recall waking to a jolt of turbulence a few hours ago and upon remembering that I was in a metal tube hovering above nothing but ocean, reaching for what was apparently one too many sleeping pills. I hope I wasn’t drooling on myself when she woke me.
I drag myself and my three suitcases from the airport into the middle of the city getting them stuck in the turnstiles at various underground stations. Puffy-eyed, groggy, and trying to rinse the pills and in-flight wine out of my system with bottles of water, I’ve arrived. Here I am, London. About a month and a half away from being broke, with no place to live and a second interview for an unpaid internship next week. The future’s looking rosy.
Seven months later.
I’m living in a studio flat the approximate size of a shoe in the northwest quarter of the city. My street is lined with charming stone townhouses although the one housing my flat is the definitely the least enviable. Fortunately there are some well-placed trees and hedges obscuring it. Inside, a funky metal clock adorns one of the lilac walls. It’s sat at a quarter to two so long that a thin layer of dust coats the hands. When I sleep on the right side of the bed, I’m careful not to bump my head on the kitchen counter when getting up in the morning. The flat is too small for a cat, a terrier, and most certainly for a pretentious name assigned to either. My window overlooks an overgrown backyard which, when covered in ivy in the summer, looks almost quaint. The window panes quiver when the trains from the London underground pass by, on the above-ground stretch of track a short distance away. The kitchenette looks mostly unused apart from a simple kettle and a stout blue and white teapot.
I spend, what seems to be, most waking hours at my office just outside the city, or on a train to or from the office. I work for a prominent publishing house, in the marketing department. The internship there turned into a permanent position after seven days. It comes with perks – some nice travel to Europe here and there – but on a daily basis it seems to offer more in the way of stress and a long commute. The office is open-concept: bright and sunny, complete with a gym, massage suite, library, restaurant, café, and rooftop terrace. I spend spare moments at my desk contemplating this self-contained bubble and longing for some reason to run out the front doors and feel the well-worn pavement beneath my feet and the sun upon my hair. The smokers get their fix atop the building surrounded by potted ferns and bistro-style tables. The building has been designed so not even they and their carcinogens have a reason to leave the perfectly-constructed bubble.
There’s a boy. We see each other several times a week. We commute in exactly opposite directions. Everything seems to revolve around train schedules, commuter routes, and engineering-related delays. Things are kept fun and uncomplicated. We go to the theatre, the cinema, and on weekend mornings to the breakfast place with the best scrambled eggs in the city. We eat crepes and drink wine in Nice. I watch him play the Blackjack tables in Monte Carlo and he watches me kick off my sandals and step into the sea at Cannes.
I miss my friends from home terribly and worry that they’ve forgotten about me since I’ve moved away. I miss the student social life and having a full social calendar. I often think about the half-completed and ultimately discarded grad school and journalism school application forms. I articulate this and other anxieties to my fellow ex-patriot: the only person I know in the country from home. Although she lives hours away, we talk at least twice a day and I feel like she’s always close by. She listens to my regrets and uncertainties and helps keep me sane. In turn, I listen to her tears and sadness about a broken heart, family issues, and post-graduation angst. My friends are all succeeding in remarkable ways, but their successes are scattered amongst less celebratory events. Everything seems complicated and ever-changing. Heartbreak, health scares, infidelity, birth control slips, dating and career stresses are just as prevalent as promotions, graduations, engagements, and world travels. Events are marked by consequences and repercussions, not just gift cards, toasts, and flowers. It’s too easy to be the happy bringer of gifts in times of triumphs. It’s the times in between where the offerings of advice, words of comfort, and reservation of judgment mean something more.
Apparently there’s no arrival, as such. The stasis we assumed marked adulthood doesn’t exist. The only consistence seems to be the constant state of flux. It’s a little frightening, but comforting at the same time because if we had already arrived, we’d have nowhere left to go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
