Eary Feeling

I'm sorry I can't hear you. 
I have been physically abused in the ear.

It’s my last night on a business trip to a familiar place. I have returned to the city that I just moved away from and it feels, well, funny. It’s exciting, it’s sad, and most of all it is just odd. I know, two posts in a row on items that I find strange, but I really think that returning to a previous home town is a confusing phenomenon that you, my dear followers (c’mon 29 going on 30), will understand. It is great to be back in the Bay, but it just ain’t the same.

First of all, I have friends and family right across the bridge that I can’t see. Second of all, I have restaurants and bars I want to go to but just don’t have the time. Third of all, some of my dearest friends and famimly have already moved on.  And finally, oh yea, I live in London now.

Pace Yourself Chippy

I hurried along the footpath from Putney Bridge station towards home, eager to flip between the stream of a Dodgers day game against the Cubs and Manchester United's walk-a-bout over an inferior German side in UEFA action.  I neared the halfway point on the path and a gaggle of runners rushed past me.

New York City?  What's your Pace?

Let me point out, that these runners were quite proper runners and they carried a pretty good clip.  Two men in very short shorts (I am hesitant to comment on how cold it was outside) approached and I was fortunate to overhear their conversation.

"This is a tad bit quicker than my natural pace," said the tall British man.

"You reckon," asked the short British man.

"I reckon it is, yes."

"Oh."

That was all I heard, because they ate up path like chips on Cinco de Mayo.  But it got me thinking - what is one's natural pace?

A Punk With Luck and Dim Sum

The morning sun had just crossed the promenade and we knew it was time to hit the road – the final leg and an unwelcomed end to an amazing road trip that lead us through Belgium and France. But before we left, we decided to plant our backsides on a rounded concrete ledge that surrounded a simple fountain. After over fifteen hundred miles of driving, imbibing, and dining (not together, and in no particular order), we were about 200km from where we would catch the ferry back across the channel. 

Do you feel lucky punk?  Well, do you?

Eleven days earlier, the fountain may have been impressive. But on this last day, I must say it did not inspire me to throw in a Euro-cent (hey, that is a cent and a half to you yanks). I was more impressed with my wife, and with us.  We just sat there and listened to the random collection of feet navigate the loose stone that made up the pedestrian path. We watched the people walk around and away from us; we thought about what we had just done and what we had just seen.  

Over-due to Hong Kong

Back in Fulham after five great days in Hong Kong.  My colleagues proved that it is possible to be incredibly nice, even if the city you live in continues to grow on top of you.  

An injustice to but one sliver
of Hong Kong's massive sky line.

Though I spent the vast majority of my time in an office building, I did get the chance to enjoy dim sum several times (and dim sum) and even had a go with Chinese pizza.  Oh yea, how can I forget the grunts of an Chinese weight lifter in spandex?  Good times before sunrise.

My manuscript sat on the shelf, though I brought it and should at least give myself credit for that.  It will take a different level of commitment to work through the remaining edits, but I trust my resolve and know that I will carve out the time and energy to get to it - just isn't going to happen tonight since I am drunk with tired and excitement to see my leading lady.  

Meanwhile, I hope to work on a special post tomorrow in memory of my sister: it is hard to believe that it has been 364 days.  

It's good to be back to eD, hope you all are well and ready for a new week of posts.  Thanks for sticking with me while I took time to put on a suit and tie!  

Mind the Gap

It is to Thailand’s “same same, but different,” or Mexico’s “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” It is plastered on the walls of tube stations, inked on cheap cotton t-shirts and painted on ceramic mugs sold at stalls near the Royal Palace.  Apparently it is even the name of multiple books and movies. 

Of course, I speak of England’s “mind the gap.” 

A rough reminder to
Mind the Gap.

Outside of the busiest train stations, I must admit that the novelty of Britain’s famous warning to subway patrons is mostly background noise. Last Friday, I wished the warning was a little bit louder. 

Remember Me-at-Ball State?

The Meatball. Ah, the Meatball. It just brings me right back to the kitchen in the big cabin by the lake, in Minnesota, where I spent many of summer nights noshing on the culmination of our family’s perfected recipe.   The Meatball also refreshes childhood memories of Aunt Helen’s kitchen, and the way she shuffled about in those pink slippers. Meatballs also reminda me of a B movie from my childhood, but that is a different story. What is important is that the Meatball has landed in Fulham. 

You must be the short
depressed kid we ordered. 

Aside from the Meatball’s obvious and voluptuous culinary qualities, an indifferent observer must recognize that the golf-ball-of-delight has a cosmic significance of its own. It encompasses the perfect combination of ingredients that span the spectrum and that are always, in part, a secret.   The final product is something that may slide between thinly sliced pieces of fresh baked filone, dominate a bowl of al dente pasta of any variety, or be used as a substitute currency in a family game of Monopoly. 

Fulham Myself

By George, it's George.

Yes. This is me walking.  Walking with my headphones on.  The streets of Fulham resemble the scene in front of me.  The resemblance is strong, because it is the streets I speak of that disappear behind the crunch of my new boots.  Yet, the traffic circle does not seem real; even though my conscious is stronger than my imagination, my mind doubts what I see. 

The Black Keys are the voice in my head, my voice as it may be between anchored steps. Not but an inch of my white headphones show, the stage draped in my cumbersome scarf and hat.  My phone is tucked deep inside my breast pocket; I fear I overdressed for the occasion.  I’m not that cool, I think, I’m walking like an old man and my new phone isn’t even activated yet.

London Snow and Santa Smells Like Beef and Cheese

Congratulations, World's Best
Cup of Coffee!
Great job, everybody!

Snow fell on London and our little neighborhood, Fulham, is covered by a not-so-warm blanket of fresh powder and ice.  Funky little euro cars are a slipping and a sliding and it is downright wonderful to spend an entire afternoon in our quaint IKEA pad.  Elf is on the telly, and a little touch of Kahlua in our instant-coffee seals the deal: Christmas season has officially graced the Giuliani Temporary Household.

An observation, if I may: stirring said coffee and liquor with a pen is oddly enjoyable.  Try it.

Happy Holidays from all of us at eternal domnation (i.e., me)!

Location, Location, Wait What Was I Saying?

We apartment hunt like we are trying to lose a tail: speed left; u-turn and take the first alley-way; fix your scarf and engage the flashers (mind out of the gutter, boys); reverse back onto the traffic circle; mind the gap and rouge packet of crisps; and leave the car with the agent and run up to see the joint before anyone takes notice.  Seriously, in two days we have seen twenty different apartments in no less than 6 or 7 neighborhoods.  This adventure has been, in a word of my newly acquainted brethren, massive (a major thank you to our zealous pilot).

Utilities are minimal...

Here is the funny thing, zigzagging across my island (“yea, my island” – name the movie and get a free eternal domnation t-shirt*) has literally taken two full days.  Little did we know that all along we passed the now recipient of our official offer of tenancy** each and every day on our way to the tube!  Are you kidding me?  The place we decided on is two blocks away!  You have to love it.

 

To make a home is a beautiful thing; it is so cool to watch the speed of this transformation when you are along side that person, and that person alone, who makes absolutely any place where you stand together, home.  Well, we have been in the UK for 10 days, and we already call Fulham home.  Truth of the matter is that Fulham is our home because we have spent the last 10 days here, together.  And even though I still haven’t received any mail with my name on it (Publishing Clearing House, this is your final notice), I could not imagine myself anywhere else.  

It is an extraordinary thing putting in an offer on a place only two blocks away.  In short, it is brilliant.  The place we want was there all along.  And I do not think this uncommon.  Wish us luck on the British negotiations, renting can certainly be a pain in the arse.  No more writing tonight…

*pending finalization of sponsorship from an anonymous source.

** we sent an e-mail saying we want it.