On the train from Heathrow, a woman asked me where I stay in London. I’ve been staying in the same area for over fifteen years. I know the nearby restaurants and most importantly, I’m near the park. She smiled, a smile that meant, “You aren’t still staying in Bayswater, are you?” but I like it. I always eat Lebanese food the first night and save the pita bread for the swans. I am so happy walking around Hyde Park watching the daffodils bloom, the lilies of the valley in their wet dark moments opening, and the trees sketching lines across the sky. This trip I may walk to my meetings, forget the Tube.
British television urges me go give money to save camels, donkeys and llamas who are working too hard to carry and pull. The donkeys shown seem quite overburdened. The store near my hotel sells lime water and curried chicken.
I watched the movie Joy on the plane. It was good to see this woman inventing a mop. I don’t think seeing that movie with Mark would be a good thing though. I’m not sure he would appreciate the mop.
I also read Marquez’ My Melancholy Whores which is about an old man who sleeps mostly with whores, and rapes his housekeeper. The housekeeper then falls in love with him. He decides for his 90th birthday to treat himself to a fourteen year old virgin who he only sleeps next to, like David with Abigail the Shulamite. But finally, when she’s fifteen they do sleep together, and she has a great time and you guessed it, she falls in love with him. The writing is beyond scrumptious, the plot is more than problematic. Food for thought on the plane ride.
In British films, you have your British explorers presenting their findings to the Royal Society. I know at least one writer who would have loved to live during that time—oh to travel and to come back to London and have people listening in rapt attention to your adventures. Like Marco Polo. Exactly like Marco Polo.