London: explore!

Yo people!

I gots tha spirit right now so better put it onto paper! First thing I wanted to say is that London is bloody fascinating (incorporating the local slang here). Today I was on an excursion to try and find a guidebook on the Camino de Santiago, because although leaving without any clue could be called adventurous, it is perhaps also a little daft (again; incorporation here, although I’m not sure whether ‘daft’ is particularly used by the English, as I can easily imagine a Glaswegian calling someone a ‘daft cunt’ or a ‘daft bashtard’). I call my search for a guidebook an ‘excursion’ because anything in London easily becomes an ‘excursion’. Bloody hell (again…), this city is BIG. I still loose my bloody way in my parents’ bloody neighbourhood, and not because I have the sense of direction of a daft bashtard but simply because there are too many streets that look too much the same. Today, however, I didn’t get lost, I just couldn’t find the bloody Waterstones, leading me to walk back and forth along the same street, which by the way was Oxford street, for three (!!!) times like a proper daft cunt. The manly side of my character had up to that point been too stubborn to ask for directions, but since I was wearing heels the more sensible and female side of me finally asked someone that looked smart enough to probably produce a useful reply, and she actually pointed in the direction I just came from. So, I found Waterstones in the end, only to find out the books on Santiago were sold in the store at Piccadilly Circus 20 minutes walk away… Yeah, right, maybe tomorrow.

Although my ‘excursion’ thus didn’t have the smoothest start, I did enjoy just walking along the streets of London. It’s like getting a D for an essay but not caring because you enjoyed the writing process so much the outcome doesn’t matter. OK, sorry for using completely unrealistic analogies here. I mean to say that what makes London so fascinating is the incredible variety, and number, of people on the streets. The people that I so far have encountered during my stay in London, besides English, were Romanian (more to say on that), French, American, some Eastern European country (let’s just say Russia), Iranian, and Italian (alright maybe this one doesn’t count because it was the waiter at the Italian restaurant), and you can obviously guess about a dozen more nationalities from just looking around you on the street. It’s pretty amazing. And to be honest, this melting pot-multicultural thing is what would be my number one reason to move to London, may I ever decide to do so. People from all walks of life, from all kinds of weird countries, with any level of education; you can find them here. Interesting! I want to interview them all.

Now, the downside is that it is just busy as hell. Honestly, one hour on Oxford street and you will be exhausted, at least I was. And the size of the city makes everyone pretty anonymous, which is a bit of a truism when speaking of big cities. Anonymity can be a splendid, blissful thing though. I mean, how great is it you could wake up one morning and decide to put on that monkey suit you have hanging in your closet to go shopping, and nobody on the streets would give a flippin flip? Here in London you could probably bounce around in that suit, making a dick of yourself attempting to climb the pole of a street light, and people will very likely not even lift one eyebrow.

But I’m drifting off here. What other interesting stories do I have in store for you? Ah well, I had a haircut. Not interesting but very necessary, as I was in the danger zone of people having drop change in my Starbucks coffee when I am just waiting for the bus. So I finally dragged myself to the nearest affordable hair saloon and was lucky enough to find it waiting for its first customer. I’m sure many people can relate when I say that one of the reasons for my apprehension towards the hairdresser is the fact they see it as part of their job to start crappy conversations with you. I feel bad for not enthusiastically replying, but I feel equally bad for doing so because I am sure the person doesn’t really want to be tortured listening to what it is exactly I am studying. So under the motto ‘everybody must have something interesting going on’ I usually just start asking them questions back. Thus it happened I asked the young, rather good looking, but short, hairdresser dude where he was from. Cheekily, he made me guess up to three times (I decided to play along), after which he finally admitted he was Romanian (there we have him :). He was washing my hair and at some point during our wee chat he started massaging my head verrrry slowly… So slow we had to stop talking. I have had hairdresser head massages before but this one made me feel….well, it made me …feel. And I think he knew exactly what he was doing because he was rather rude to a man that came in to make an appointment, and he started flirting with me after I sat down to get my bush trimmed (I am aware this choice of words is slightly dubious). Hmm, this made the situation rather interesting because there were obvious power relations at play. On the one hand, being the customer, it was mainly up to me to draw the boundaries of our little flirting emporium. On the other hand, he had big ass scissors in his hands. Sounds like soft versus hard power, or constructivism versus realism, whatever way you want to put it. Nevertheless, this transformed what is usually a duller than dull half hour into an interesting and at times a bit uncomfortable play of push and pull. The inevitable questions were asked about my age and boyfriend status (this is where the uncomfortable part came in), to which I gave an honest answer after a few moments of pretending to be the cheeky, charming lady instead of revealing the shy, and even slightly intimidated, inner bashtard in me. He kept repeating 26 was a nice age. A very nice age. And he liked it when I closed my eyes (sorry mate, you didn’t really expect me to let you blow dry my eyeballs to dust now, did ya). Having mixed feelings about this slightly weird flirtatious tension in the (h)air, partly because of the fact I really did want him not to ruin my hair out of revenge, I kind of went along with it, restraining myself at the moments I noticed how empty the saloon was with just us two in it. Although he was short in height, the puppy-eyed Romanian definitely showed some leadership skills whenever he firmly directed my head into the right angle in order to display his snipping skills. I have to say, I felt a bit like a dog being handled by Cesar the dog-whisperer (in case you know him). It was attractive and intimidating at the same time. So, guys, if that is the effect you want to have on a girl, push her around a bit and take the lead; no lady can resist some cave man displays. I suggest start by returning her calls within 48 hours (and emails; but this is an insider joke). Anyhow, let me shatter any of the reader’s illusion all this courting went anywhere. He did give me his number and his name but, sadly, good leadership skills don’t weigh up to a 10 inch height difference…

This was my bed time story for today. Now I’m gonna sneak a smoke on the balcony, without the tedious remarks of my mom for a change (‘So, you’re an addict too now’, bitch bitch, whine whine) and then go to bed, because my administration shit is far from done and so is my packing.

Wet, sloppy kisses on all yer cheeky cheeks!