London Notes

When travelling to London and back I made a few notes, which are mainly my feelings on the paper - as unpolished as they are in my mind. I decided I want to keep them, unlike many more that I later lost, deleted or simply never wrote down.

The first time was like in a dream, so intense that I missed the plane and had to stay overnight in the airport, napping on the uncomfortable benches. 

The second time was well-prepared, with polished admiration and smoothly increasing frequency of heartbeats along with the landing airplane. Only the insane blooming of the city with the colourful wings on the both side of the river could match the extent of the skyrocketing emotional fireworks in my whole human being, as if I was a child at my first Christmas. 

This time it was different, as if both the city and me grew up and needed to find the dolce vita in details. I sank into the deeper layers of the reality in search of clear molecular emotions. The ones I am taking with me like flashcards pinned on memory.

The comfort

I am still half asleep and feel slightly weightless in the morning, a bit in the air, wrapped in the soft and calmingly tender blanket. The latter seems to demonstrate the names of all the cities I would want to visit in an interesting calligraphic font. The poster of Woody Allen’s Manhattan musical is right above my head: I did not know Meryl Streep and Diane Keaton cast in that one, accompanied by Gershwin's music. I am alone in the bedroom, yet I can distinctly feel his warmth next to me and his odour on the pillow. I can hear him typing something next door, in the living-room and drinking English breakfast tea. Without milk. 

It is going to rain in London today...

The gratitude

Lines are everywhere. We are almost there to mount the Eye. I feverishly sip my scorching tea to be able to concentrate on the scenery I am here to absorb. At the last checking point the tickets refuse to be valid for the day: we panically disclose we booked them for a wrong date. The tall guard, fighting the wind with a funny hat, thoroughly watches the crippled hope, breaking into hundred pieces in my fading eyes. And asks: 

- Are you in London then? 

I hardly shake my head.  - Pass on, - he sighs in a low voice and nimbly pushes the tickets back to us. - Next!

The contrast

Little Venice was serene, as if pretending to have nothing in common with the city… as if it was somewhere between the reality and the landscape from ancient and forgotten manuscript… as if a frozen picture in an abandoned house, which managed to keep the vividly real colours. There is no one around except occasional joggers, escaped from the tourist crowds to seize the day. I can physically feel the contrast, have never seen this side of the city...

The regret

In the middle of the ice tower, the Shard, one can see the city in its evening dress - shiny, welcoming, alive. The guests up here opt for champagne to embrace the Shardview through the aesthetics of bubbles. Or probably, to stupefy their fear of height. 

There is a man, former hipster with distinct past involving art - probably, a dancer or a musician - in his late 30s-early 40s, with high forehead and longish silver hair combed back. He sits straight on the floor leaned to the metallic construction with his back, elegantly holds his champagne glass in one hand and gazes over the city lights. His look is clear, the mild green eyes are gleaming, full of stories and smoky regret, which expands and expands all over the place…

I leave him there in the same pose I found him an hour ago and am ready to believe that tomorrow the whole Shard will be all veiled with regret...

The annoyance

If you think your English is good, you need to go to London, get into a local restaurant and ask for a menu. You either get an inferiority complex for the rest of your life or excel in the art of predictions. In the best case, you get a decent dinner and never wanna know what you just devoured... 

The menus in London are harder to grasp than the texts from GMAT verbal. Seriously.

The attachment

The Waterstones right at the corner of Trafalgar square is an ordinary bookstore with a simple Costa cafe upstairs. I visited lots of them in Europe, yet Waterstones is the one I got attached to. Particularly to:

the freshly published paper smell of the bestsellers, with attractive covers;

the arrogance of the ”How to...” business-books, knowing everything and nothing at the same time;

yellowish sadness of the totally useless editions on the far shelves on the ground floor, almost given away for free. The ones, that although never had an owner, still look worn out;

The art books… 

Every time my endless roaming among the particoloured shelves resulted in at least one new acquired book which I had selected carefully and lovingly as a trophy: half of my suitcase was packed with them. The appointments were made in front of Waterstones, most farewells happened there too. Because I needed an excuse to be around, to sneak inside, to float along the shelves, leaf through, touch different paper textures, smell them, read a few lines here and there. To desperately desire to have them all... and then leave with one, the most sympathetic. 

I might have been a book thief in my past life… I am a book maniac in this one.