Sometimes London can feel like a never-ending whoosh of frenetic doing. Just go go go, rush rush rush.
Alarm beeps, hit snooze, alarm beeps again, get up, in and out of the shower, get dressed, hurry, hurry, gulp down some coffee, mind on the job already, always three steps ahead, planning the next maneuver, the mind always navigating ahead of the body, clothes, hair, make-up, perfume, bag, coat, keys, money, work pass, oyster card, phone, make bed, out the door, need to load the oyster, glance up, train coming, rush past the dawdling / slow / gawking / unseeing tourists, run down the steps, dodge the people, beep beep beep, doors are closing, leap - on the train, check Blackberry, answer emails, off the train, through the turnstyle, queue for coffee, dredge bag for pass, flash the pass at security, through the turnstyle, wait for the lift, to the desk, laptop out, plug in, boot up, enter five different passwords, set voicemail, run to meeting... a day of meetings interspersed with phone and computer, broken for the gym, email / text / talk to friends, grab a sandwich, then home, dodge people, mind ahead, what's for dinner / where I'm going / who I'm meeting, what I'll change into, time for shower, clothes, shoes, hair, makeup, bag, grab something to eat, check address of where I'm going...and go and go and go.
There's a latent tension that bubbles beneath the city like the sea of ectoplasmic slimy goop in Ghostbusters - it's true, that's why it's strongest on the underground. Seriously, people go nuts down there over having to wait for one minute for their train. I've seen it. I've felt it.
When you're in it, it feels normal. It's only when you take a break that you realise just how much the sheer force of the city's g-d up mental state has seeped into your psyche. It's the decompression period. One week off gives you a little taste of it. Two weeks, and you actually start to feel like you're shedding it.
Two months... and my mind is empty. I'm really not sure what I spend my days doing. I believe I've experienced a blank mind. There's nothing zen about it. It's just empty. I have found myself lying in a hammock unsure of how I got there and how long I've been there. It's not an unpleasant sensation, but I wonder if a more productive soul would be using this time to do something constructive. Learn a new language perhaps.
We stumbled our way through Mexico, Cuba, Costa Rica and Colombia with hi / how are you / I'm well / it's good / two beers / two coffees / one more please / two more please / thanks / no thanks / two people / a table for two / the bill / how much / I don't speak Spanish / do you speak English / that was delicious / this one / one of those please / tomato sauce / salt / glass / ashtray / lighter / water / with gas / without gas / where is the toilet / bye. Rudimentary at best, but Shakespeare compared to my Portuguese.
It's taken me over a week to figure out thank you, hi and goodbye. And I still don't know if I should be using the masculine or feminine version of thanks. At breakfast the cook said something to us and I sat there, eyebrows knitted, pondering why she would be offering cold grapes. After a protracted silence, someone else realised she was asking if we'd like fried eggs.
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