The Battlefield Where the Girls Say I Love You



That's just the thing: we will never tell you we love you. In fact, we're here only to hold hands across state lines and yell at the world. We're here to try to touch you across this chasm of flown things. Not even that. At most, I will teach you how to make a gin smoothie when there's nothing left in the house. Hannah can teach you several languages and what to do when your car breaks up with you. Thanks for coming out.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

put your forks down. seriously. it's getting gross.


at first taking a car into the city from gatwick seemed, i don't know, glamorous. my family has traveled my whole life precisely because we do things....um, frugally. short of stuffing us kids into luggage, my parents did it. one room apartments in wales. one meal a day until my sister developed a stutter, a sure sign of a small person nervous breakdown.

we packed 7 items for each child, each trip: one pair galoshes, one nightgown, one dress, a pair of good church shoes, one flower press, and one scrapbook. and underwear. my mother was convinced you could cinch a nightgown at the waist, pair it with boots, and have the hippest children in hyde park. the flower press and scrapbook were for distraction-- at museums we were allowed to collect ticket stubs and candy wrappers and postcards. outside: flowers. this gave us girls incentive to, you know, go through this whole travel thing without making everyone else crazy.



so, calling a car this morning seemed glitzy. while the train would have spit us out at victoria by 9 (we flew in at 8), the carride took over two hours. stopped traffic. only, on public broadcasting--a roundtable discussion of wordsworth's trip to germany with his sister, dorothy, and coleridge. at first i was rapt. kent looked at me expectantly, as if i might pump my fists at the sheer mention of the prelude. but after a while...

so far: i'd forgotten the insane preoccupation with kebabs here. unsurpassed.
i saw my student, reem, in the atlanta airport. she seemed mortified that i'd followed her there.
the plane movie contract: nightmare. john cusack cannot be saved.

i miss hannah. i don't want to talk about it or anything. just like i don't want to talk about the new r&b version of "fire and rain."

the goal: i'm here to museum as a verb. specifically--tate britain, tate modern, british, national gallery, and the national portrait gallery. also, portabello road markets. also the statue of boadicea, the female leader of the celtic tribe who nearly overthrew the romans here in 61 ad.

no shopping. no shows. good eats and art, bitches. and i'm going to starbucks every morning for an hour and reading whatever i want. and not feeling bad about it. that's right. i'm going to hop past those locally owned brew houses. why? because i can. "petulant?" han, you've seen nothing.

so far, aptly, nora ephron's wallflower at the orgy.


7 comments:

hannah said...

my life is not empty without you. i don't miss being able to call you, and i don't feel like i'm about to sail into a sardonic bishop poem abt the loss of friends and continents.

do you have a phone card or something??!

tom, pull it together man. BATS!!

hannah said...

p.s. i'd like for you to notice that my post yields ads for hot asian girls free xxx, whereas yrs results in ads for maine lobster.

T. said...

this is bullshit. i signed up for a hot asian, and someone shipped me a photo of my parents at the prom.

what kind of twisted site is this?

Anonymous said...

Mamie you simply must see Turner's "Tintern Abbey, the transept" in The British Museum. It'll bring perfect symmetry to your trip after the radio broadcast of Wordsworth.

JaySlacks said...

What the FUCK is THIS background?

hannah said...

stop shouting. i can't help it.

Anonymous said...

what, no madam tussauds? i thought for sure that you would want your pic taken with a waxen paul mccartney... while wearing the "one legged" pendant designed by stella. not even a kate moss "let it snow" christmas card pic? you're no fun.