Saturday, February 6, 2016

London, February 2016 -- A Few Things

It is February, right?

For the last 4, 5 years I've come to London once or twice a year for work. It's the sort of thing that you tell yourself is provisional, and that every year you say will probably be the last time. And who knows: this year might be the last, there's never any guarantee that I'll be asked to do this job again.

But that provisionality is something I'd like to fight against; that feeling of "waiting for", "this is just...". To which end, I wanted to write down a few things that happened, today, upon my arrival in London for the job this year.

My plane had the roughest landing I've ever experienced; herking and bucking in major winds around Heathrow. We pulled off of one landing attempt, and the next was a bruiser--the loudest landing I've ever experienced, as well. Everyone clapping at the end, but also seasick, dazed. The air crew strapped into their seats, smiling nervously. One passenger wound up with a bloody nose, whether from being struck in the turbulence or just from the turbulence I don't know.

On the Piccadilly Line in from the airport I thought, as I always do, how strange lovely and ordinary it is that this transit line, every time I come to London, takes me past LAMDA, where I went to drama school. Like right past it: the school building is flush to the tracks, looks out over it. So...there's the tiny courtyard in which some students smoked and others of us just loitered on breaks; there's the windows in the stairwell looking out over the trains; there's the felt memory of my flat, connected to the school building by experience and like an actual (HliAT!) 3-minute walk as999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

That was me falling asleep on the keyboard. s2G. Decided to keep it.

Transfer to the Victoria Line, then Northern. On (I think) the Victoria Line: a young man and woman are seated at my knees, in front of where I'm standing. I decide that they're one of those couples that look like brother and sister; I decide that they're working class. It emerges over the course of the ride that they are brother and sister (almost certainly); that their parents are that older couple seated right across the train from them; that they're clearly pretty posh, hearing them speak more; that they're all going somewhere fancy, all 4 dressed in crisp evening formality: mom, dad, sister, brother. At one point this:

Sister    those people who, they type 'u' instead of 'you
Brother what?
Sister    they, type 'u' like the letter 'u' instead of the whole world it's like--how much time do they save? What are they doing with all the extra time?
Brother   (smile, acknowledgment)
Father   Apologizing. (scuffle as his daughter doesn't hear him, etc) They should be apologizing. 
Sister   Wh =ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp

Interesting. I guess I'm tired. Then sister said, "Why would they have to apologize?", much more saltily than necessary imho, and the dad said, "For being rude, for tjst;

Okay. Goodnight. Sheesh.

No comments: