Cambridge and London (snippets)

Hello Cambridge! you are so pretty. Let me take somber and depressing snapshots of you.

What can I say, I love food, and I love sweets, so instead of taking nice pictures of buildings, I took pictures of the fudge shop.

Cambridge, the Bridge of Sighs.

So I'm in the Eurostar station, coming home after a lot of work, and some fun too. I went to London to do library research in the Quaker library, which is amazingly quaint, filled with sweet and insane people doing research as well, and filled with the rythmic sound of people turning pages at the same time. The way I like it, baby. And in the evening I have nice dinners with friends who bore with my endless prattling. When you spend 7 hours a day writing, you feel loquacious, you really do. You also seem to think that your arcane subject is FASCINATING. I apologize to my friends, but that's what you risk when you get yourself an over-enthusiastic multitasker pal.

But it wasn't all work. I popped into Cambridge to spend the weekend with my friends N and Am, cuddled baby Sym, ate so much food (damn those triple chocolate butter Belgian biscuits from Sainsbury's) and slept. I needed a break. And my friends made me feel like a Wonderful Butter Biscuit of a Girl.

Those of you who've exchanged emails would have an inkling about why I like anything Holmes. Inside joke!

Can you tell I'm a bit frantic/happy? The internet connection here is prehistoric so expect more pictures at a later date. I'm crossing the Channel back to classes and WORKWORKWORK, but all in all, I feel regenerated. It's all in the fudge, really.

What's your accent?

I can't pronounce my "th"s.
I can't say "three", I say free. Insert joke here, my family has been laughing for years about how "frilling" my life is.
I can't say "there", I say vere.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't embarassed by this. I went to a shoe repair shop this morning in London, and as I asked about sole remplacements, the shoe man asked me where I came from.
"That a nice accent you got, love." Yes I know! I spik like dat! And once someone makes the remark, it gets worse and worse. Ze split perzonality, don't you know!

I'm self-conscious about my voice in English. I have trained as a singer for years, so I hate not feeling in control of how I sound. My sister has a sponge-like ear for language, and now talks with a thick American accent, whereas I hesitate between British and mid-Atlantic, with a nice dollop of French. Not only the "th"s, but also my intonations, which are energetic, as opposed to the usual monotone. The great test, apparently, is how you say "bottle". If you're British, you'll use a glottal stop and say "Bo'll". If you are American, you'll say: "Boddle". I say "Bot-El". Which sounds like a Superman character.

Is there a class distinction for accents in America the way there is in Great-Britain? There is a geographical one, certainly, but does the way you talk mean anyone knows how educated you are?

I can't address this topic without including Professor Higgins' great rant in My Fair Lady.

An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him,
The moment he talks he makes some other Englishman despise him.
One common language I'm afraid we'll never get.
Oh, why can't the English learn to set
A good example to people whose English is painful to your ears?
The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears.
There even are places where English completely
disappears. In America, they haven't used it for years!

My Valentine plans

This is a strange time for me; I'm acting so much out of character all the time that I'm coming to doubt that I have a character, or maybe I'm morphing into someone I don't know yet, which isn't bad per se, not at all, just troubling.

I booked two tickets for an all-night dance party in a big industrial space in Paris, on the 13th of February. I love dancing, but I am very, very bad at it. Imagine a 5'10 graham cracker on LSD and you'll have an idea. I hate dancing in front of people, but when I'm in need of some cheering up, it's up with the music and on with the prancing around in my room. Also, most people are shy when it comes to dancing, and rely on chemical components to loosen up. Which for me is totally out of the question.

Well, we're taking this show to the road. We're going to break some moves!
Oh God, I'm so bad at this stuff. I have no game. Why? Why can't I just glide effortlessly on the dance floor, shake those hips and seemlessly weave my magic around my prey? Because I have no coordination, that's what.

And I've invited someone I like to come with me to a 90's Dance Music Rave Party. On Valentine's night.

"What is this thing all about, anyway?"

"We'll dance all night in a warehouse. And I'll be wearing a Spice Girl T-shirt."

Small pause.

"Done."

I like him, I really do.

ps: any dancing tips will be very very appreciated.

Twice bitten, thrice shy

Maybe I could make a check-list to hand out when people hit on me. It would state my political preferences, my favorite book, why I am a vegetarian,and so forth. Like that people would immediately know if there was something so offensive to them that they could politely decline: "Sorry, eating pulses is morally repugnant to me." Of course, I could also quickly peruse their check-list (hmmm, hates puppies...hates watching sports on TV...I'll pass).

This fantasy is completely dumb. Let me rephrase that: it's not dumb when you come out of a long relationship. When you remember saying:"Just got a call from So-and-so" and your boyfriend looks at you with compassion because he knows the deal with So-and-so, and you don't have to explain anything. Maybe my allergy to exposition is why I'm a serial monogamist. It's pure laziness.

"Relationships take a lot of effort." I agree when someone says this to me (usually just before they get married, for some reason) but I would say that meeting people is a lot of effort as well. Trying not to be fake, but also trying to make a good impression. It's all pretty exhausting. Add to that the jittery feeling that you are about to discover something terrifying about your date and the whole thing just does me in. Like that night when my date told me that immigration was a sin. Slowly backing away now...

Every single one of my boyfriends has been someone incredibly different from me. Different temperement, different interests, different backgrounds. So maybe the check-list wouldn't even work, because I like being incompatible with someone. Or maybe the checklist should only be one question:



Picture from the absolutely marvellous xkcd

I need...

I need a holiday a vacation a minibreak you name it.

I need a long walk in the mountains, with a backpack, a tent and a big crusty loaf of bread wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, a hunk of cheese, one of those thick pale yellow Dutch cheeses, and lots of water.

I need the sound of rocks and pebbles rollicking down hill under my shoes, the smell of trees and soft crushed green grass, and the feel of bark against my cheek when I rest in the shade, swallowing my meal slowly, enjoying the sunset.

I need a night alone, under the stars, thinking of friends and fun times and all the wonderful things of the world. I'll hear strange noises and won't worry, because the air is thick and sweet and summery, and my heart is content.

And I need to go home with scratches all over my ankles, a bad sunburn on my nape, a few scribbles in my diary, a few underexposed pictures taken with my camera, stopping by at the newsagent in the station to get some chocolate for breakfast.

This summer, please.

Paris-London

Only four more days of this exam hell. I'm heading off to London afterwards to go do research in the Quaker library and I'm pretty excited. I like going to foreign cities on my own and take in things at my own rythmn.

I already have a few postcard recipients lined up, but if you're like me, you enjoy getting things in the mail that aren't bills, right? So if you would like a postcard from London, please tell me and I'll email you to get your address. I love writing to people! Maybe we could start a blogger postcard club.

The Jewish Bride

This is one of my favourite painting by Rembrandt, The Jewish Bride. I love the way the man looks at his bride, the way he puts his hand on her heart. When I look at this image, I feel a quiet sense of content seep through me again. Rembrandt has the most wonderful way with light and darkness, and when I stare long enough, I get that dizzy sensation of passing from a darkened room to a garden in summer. At first you blink and there is almost pain, and suddenly vividness becomes pleasurable. The smells of August fill the air, and the low humming of creatures makes you walk that much slower.

This painting makes me more aware of other people's body language.


I always wonder what keeps long-term relationships going. I wonder if it's that look, that hand, that infinite trust, that keeps the light from being swallowed by dusk. Maybe it's finding a person that gives you that funny, heart-twisting splash of sensations.

I love that painting.