69?

It is my last day in London and before I'm off to meet a friend for lunch, I figured I'd check the blogs I read to see what has transpired since I left last week. It's amazing to realize that I've only been gone for 6 days (as of 11:39am British Standard Time) yet time seems to have elasticized. I feel as though when I get back to L.A., nothing will be the same yet I know everything will. Really, it's me who isn't the same.

It's been delicious and grey and wonderful and jetlagged and chocolatey and strenuous and sweet and smokey and perfumed and greasy and considering it's autumn in Europe, surprisingly sunny and warm. I've spent hours on airplanes small and large, flying from L.A. to London and then London to Paris and back. I've spent hours on trains, going to and from Heathrow, going to and from homes of friends here. I've spent hours walking along the streets of London and Paris, sometimes looking up, sometimes looking down. I've spent hours wandering through the marbled halls of basilicas and cathedrals and museums. I've spent hours sitting at tables across from people I've never met but whom I feel I've known my whole life. I've spent hours spinning maps back and forth and strolling through parks and gardens.

For all the things I've spent: vacation days, travel time, Euros/pounds/dollars; it has been worth it to come far away from who I was to find out who I am. I am someone who I want to be again and I am happy to be bringing this someone back to L.A. (via New York City.) I am someone who is inspired and invigorated. Someone who writes about and photographs unusual, unsuspecting subjects. I am someone who repeats the beginning of sentences for effect. Cheap effect. Someone who has seen what came before and looks toward what is to come. Someone I am not, however, is a person who hides her emotions well.

Where we lay our scene: Harrod's department store, where the joke goes if you ask them if you can purchase an elephant, they ask "Asian or Indian?" The players: KATIE and a BEAUTIFUL HARROD'S SALESGIRL behind the counter in the Accessories department.

BEAUTIFUL HARROD'S SALESGIRL: I can help you over here, Miss.

KATIE: (cheerfully) Great.

(KATIE approaches the counter and sets down a tortoise shell hairclip handmade by a French company named Alexander which unnervingly resembles the one she's wearing but has flower patterns drilled into the pliable French plastic...the best plastic for holding up thick, flowing raven hair like hers. BEAUTIFUL HARROD'S SALESGIRL runs her carefully manicured finger long the product price list.)

BEAUTIFUL HARROD'S SALESGIRL: That will be 69.

(Though not verified by Harrod's Closed Circuit Security Footage, KATIE's mouth falls open.)

KATIE: Sixty-nine...(performs quick mental currency conversion)...pounds?

BEAUTIFUL HARROD'S SALESGIRL: Yes.

(KATIE begins to exhibit a slight perspiration. She ponders an appropriate response to calmly mask her disbelief with the veneer of a simple change of retail heart. A response which would belong to someone who has traveled the world as she has and lavished herself with countless frivolities as she has. A response worthy of someone who is so inspired and invigorated and writerly and shit.)

KATIE: I can't afford to spend 69 pounds on a hairclip.

(KATIE backs away and scurries out of the store, vowing to spend 69 pounds on a hairclip one day when she has lost her goddamn mind.)

Thank you, London, for reminding me that the frugal bitch I once was before I came on this trip is still alive and well.

a belated birthday story for my friend penny

You may recall my mention of a friend whom I have nicknamed Penny. It was Penny's birthday last week and since she was out of town, I gave her a belated birthday card when we met on Monday night for dinner. Imagine if you will, a photo cut from a magazine advertisement of a Korean businessman wearing a dark suit and maroon tie, sitting on a bench in a park, holding an ivory ice cream cone, thoughtfully looking down at it as he takes a lick. This is his story...

"Yoo-Min stared ruefully at the vanilla soft-serve. The spun cream and sugar concoction wilting in the sun. The cone slowly losing its Styrofoam crispiness from the warmth of his toned, accurate fingers.

His mind wandered to the day he first saw her. She was delivering four dozen French crullers to the receptionist’s desk at his office. The nametag read Penny. On the top right corner, she had carefully drawn an ice cream cone in brown marker. It was her artistry he noticed first. Her auburn hair tied back in a short ponytail. She had a heart-shaped face and riding boot-shaped heart.

Suddenly, his collared shirt grew tight, the room became humid, his heart raced as he tried not to stare. He pretended to shuffle through the documents he was holding; a PennySaver, a report about something and two pages of his name and home address in different fonts, repeated for the purpose of making return address labels with adhesive filing tags. Moments passed until he thought of a witty comment to offer as the receptionist signed the delivery slip.

“Lot of donuts,” he uttered casually.

“They’re actually French crullers,” she smiled, correcting his already plain observation. And with that, she collected her copy of the receipt and cheerfully bounded out the front door like a mentally handicapped boy of 8.

He never saw her again. Yet still, years later, upon the slightest glimpse of the donut’s spiral folds, he would crave ice cream and white women."

Happy Birthday, Penny!

And with that, laminated Streetwise maps for Paris and London in hand, I bid you all adieu for a few days. I'm off to Europe where the men are slender and the women are perverted. Chocolat, here I come!

not at all

The other day, I went to visit a friend at her place of work. Forcing myself into the middle of their nightly fray, I stood amongst the bustling employees as they ran helter skelter. It was the end of the day and everyone wanted to go home. To retreat from the demands and the duties. To kick off shoes and wash faces and fold into bed. I felt out of place, in civilian clothes, but watched proudly as my friend prepared her troops for the following day. A calm moment appeared and as she put a few lonely items away for the night, she said to me "I'm so glad you came. I was telling my coworkers about you. I told them you're one of the smartest people I know." To this I replied, "Not at all. There is so much that I don't know."

I don't know how to set up my 401k. Or if I already have one. I don't know where the Newark Airport is in relation to Manhattan. I don't know how peeled shrimp are denuded by machine. I don't know why eyelashes only grow to a certain length. I don't know where my life is headed. I don't know what marriage means. I don't know how to break into the advertising industry. I don't know why my sister continues to date a boy who doesn't deserve her. I don't even know how long I've been wearing my current pair of contacts.

When I tally the things I do know, or at least think I know, I feel like my brain is a silo filled with a dreary year's harvest. I'm 29 years old and I feel like a child wandering this big, grey world. I'm taking my first trip to London next week and I am sure that the wonder of an unfamiliar city will overcome me. It is what I crave. I am in desperate need of change. Change that leads to happiness instead of sadness. Change that is within my control. I need to go where I know nothing at all. Where it's acceptable that I am unlearned in even the simplest things like the shape of coins and the name of the neighborhood I'm staying in. Where the flattering pressure of being the smartest person someone knows is alleviated. Sometimes, I can't live up to myself. And knowing this might make me a little bit smarter.