My little farewells to London: Bloomsbury

We never really said goodbye. It was one of these casual relationships that you merely say “See you later” when you make your leave. Considering I lived in a dungeon office – chained to my desk, as JK, my boss, used to say – on the main square of Bloomsbury campus I have to say we kept it pretty unemotional.

It is a place that gives me a cool breeze and sharp thinking all year round. No matter the temperature outside, when I stand in Tavistock square I feel ready for the most rigorous academic thinking, the most sarcastic comment, the most cynical view of the world.

If it was a person, Lord Bloomsbury, would be a frisky aristocrat in his late 30s. With cool skin, and flawless white shirt; phlegmatic humour and sharp calculations. Lots of “indeed, my dear” and “lovely weather”. He would use the same condescending smile both to invite you for dinner and to shoot you in a dark alley (as long as he did not get blood on his shirt).

The buildings are flawless, the once private park squares still reflect the intellectual snobbery of their famous frequents, immaculate perfection that even the drunk students are not able to affect. They get swallowed by it.

The university buildings add to the feeling. Especially the big Senate Big Brother presence. But turn left and you are in front of SOAS. The only place in the area that managed to add its own colour. Curry smells, colourful ethnic clothes, colourful people, music… A spot of red wine on Lord Bloomsbury’s white shirt!

I like him. Not sure he likes me back. But you never know with these upper class fellows. We might meet again, who knows. But next time on more equal terms.

My little farewells to London: Soho

Another meeting with friends is over. I should be heading home, but tonight I think I will take my time.

I am in Soho, the posh side. Expensive bars and well dressed people.

Just one street further north and the picture changes. Bars, restaurants, cafes, a catholic church hosting an order of capuchin monks, a van full of alcohol and a group of people drinking in the back of it, some dark gay bars, not the flashy main stream.

What I like in this ambience is the colourful collection of people that would not fit together if seen in any other place. Soho has an impressive dominating effect on visitors, even on the regulars. It makes you believe that there everything is possible. Any time of night or day you can see anything. Just pretend you were expecting it.

I give my best friend a call to share the experience.

Sitting in his comfy bed in his familiar suburban environment has the most mum-like reaction I would (or would not) expect. You are in Soho? Be careful! It’s late!

Calm down silly!! Who would harm ME, in my bright yellow dress? Says confident me.

(Do not seek the logic in this, there is none!)

I like the dirty side of Soho, the one that you have the slight feeling of fear in the back of your head but you know that every corner is full of excitement and new experiences. I keep heading north. There I see empty restaurants, tired waiters cleaning up, and some Italians complaining about their recent loss in Euro 2008… oh well… next time boys.

My little farewells to London: Southbank

It is this time again for the Nomad to take her leave. It is like a wind blowing to the direction of “exit”. I know I have a little more time left just to kiss London goodbye.

Some places you conquer and some other places conquer you. London falls in the latter category. Too big and powerful, too many impressions. So, this time the Nomad leaves with slow careful steps not to awake Julius César inside her.

My first little farewell was to the Southbank where the old and new combine, where the planned and the unintended mix together. It is a normal indecisive day typical for London, when the sun and the clouds just cannot agree whose turn it is to rule the sky (and our moods come to that). The planned feature of the day is an eastern European festival. The unintended picture I took home with me is a black man forging his Caribbean dance to fit the gypsy rhythms. I walk on.

A woman in the sand performing her rituals to awake it; to give it a new form that will last only for as long the almighty tide allows it.

Few steps further I enter the wildlife world. I come face to face with tigers, pandas and other paper creatures in a not so successful exhibition. What is a cheetah doing next to the Thames anyway? Or is this part of the collection of impossible faces that constitute London?

This city fascinates me and frightens me as I still cannot grasp the over arching logic that rules it. I understand square things. And this city is round. There is only one place where its minimalist nature allows you to believe that you understand. The Tate. And from there I try to understand London again.

And this is the result:

And the name of obsession is....

I am one of these weirdoes who never watch TV. If you ask me my main reasoning would be that I have better things to do than just watch this trash. I would most likely beautify my anti-TV speech with an assortment of mildly offensive words, even some one should not repeat in front of ones mum.

Whatever I say… this is a lie.

The REAL reason I do not watch TV is that I get obsessed with whatever I see. My brain absorbs the information, tries to analyse it and submerges to the blissful passivity of a flat-pack reality. The one that comes in a box.

It happened to me in several occasions. If I watch something again and again I start thinking in terms of it, judging the world (the real one, not the one in the box) using borrowed morals from my fake reality.


Obsession One: Sex and the City
Alter Ego: Miranda Hobbs (boys do not hate me now...!)


That was one of the harmless ones. It only made me more aware of the fact that relationships are not for ever and that I could actually break up with the boyfriend who I did not really like any more and that would not mean I would burn in hell. The problem only started when these oh-so-smart tests came out that assessed your personality using the four SATC girls as archetypes. When my male (and straight, come to that) best friend told me that he was 40% Carrie, that was the point I knew I had pushed it too far.







Obsession Two: Babylon 5
Alter Ego: Ambassador Delen (undecisive in terms of spiecies)
For months I preferred watching negotiations between alien and human forms of life instead of spending quality time with the poor boyfriend who made the fatal mistake of introducing me to Sci-Fi. Honestly that was not big loss, but that was not part of the obsession. Various races and lots of inter-galaxy tensions occupied my mind at a time that I should be writing up my PhD. By the end of the series I was wondering if as a Mimbari ambassador I would actually decide to become the first human-mimbari hybrid. Oh what a torture! Big choices for my small trivial existence!







Obsession Three: Heroes
Alter Ego: Peter Petrelli (I just want to be able to do it all but be a loser out of choice)
If you say that you do not secretly aspire to be Peter Petrelli you are a big fat liar. I was so intrigued by the series that after I finished watching the first season I went deeply underground and watched the second season on very illegal Chinese streaming website. It was like bad wine. You know it tastes like vinegar, you know it will give you the worse headache in the morning, you know than when you wake up you won’t remember a thing of what you did while you drunk it… but still you do it simply you need your doses. Some are heroin addicts. I was a hero addict.

I could name some more... including some greek ones: Firefly, Dio Ksenoi (Two strangers), Xfiles, even... (hold your breath) Nightrider....

So, an advice to whoever wants my attention: Do not switch on the TV while I am in the room. If you do that you lost me as my brain will enter a virtual world without escape (unless you pull the plug!). At least I do not dress up thinking that the people in the box can actually see me...

Frivolity

My knowledge of Russian poetry is limited and traditionally destilled through Natalia's taste and traslation talent. But this one was specially chosen. So true, so me... so us!

Frivolity – you are such a sweet sin
My sweet companion and enemy of mine,
You injected music in my skin
You injected laughter in my eyes.

You taught me not to keep rings,
No matter whom this life weds me to;
At random start things from the ends
And finish before the beginnings are due.

Taught me to be like stem and to be like steel
In this life, where we can do so little.
How with chocolate sadness to heal,
And laugh in the faces of people.

By Marina Tsvetaeva, the romantic revolutionary for the self not the whole.