Sunday, February 08, 2004
Lost in Translation
After class yesterday I met up for tea with PhD Novelist. She signed my passport photos and British passport application, asserting I was me, and kindly refraining from writing "I certify this is a true likeness of Sylvia Plath." I did look a bit glum in the shot from a headache I'd had all day. I was much cheerier over dinner at wagamama with PhD Novelist and her very funny husband.
Our waitron was not the sharpest tack in the box, bringing us double orders of sparkling water and juice after clearly asking (and being told no) if we wanted them. My headache might have been dehydration-related; as a result of the dim waitron I should be headache-free for the next month. We left a monetary tip, though Novelist's Husband was tempted to instead write "don't quit your day job." If the headache was caused by a lack of laughter, I should also be cured for a month.
This (well yesterday, technically, at least in this time zone) afternoon I joined John and Grash at Grash's place, after they'd been to Borough Market. They ate pancakes and bacon, I ate pita and various dippy things and olives, and then we semi-productively worked on a System Dynamics assignment (about abortion rates in Ceausescu's Romania) and downloaded movie trailers. I really want to see Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. It looks just as dumb as the first one, and I will be just as willing to ignore that for the dancing. The music sounds better, too. Plus risque dance costumes, joy! Just don't try to learn to dance from the website. They don't even tell you that you're not allowed to transfer weight during beat 1 in rumba, which is very important. Trust me on this.
John and I were sadly unable to convince Grash to join us at Lost in Translation. I loved it, unsurprisingly. From the trailers I learned I also want to see Les Invasions Barbares and possibly Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Marketing wins again!
I had a mildly Bill Murray moment in the Covent Garden tube station on the way home. The lift was full of drunken chattering Brits and some men singing in some not-English, not-Romance language. It sounded like a combination of a dirge and a very slow drinking song. It was only as we arrived at the platform I realised they were singing Yellow Submarine.
This (Sunday) evening after dance class I'm joining the LSE Canadian Society at a pub, and am looking forward to it. I don't feel out of place or homesick, it's just nice to hear accents that sound like home.
Bill Murray's character has a great line that I agree with (today at least): "The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.” Someone who knows me very well thinks I came to London to find myself and what I want. So far I disagree. I'd already found those, but in moving to another country and making a conscious break from my life in Vancouver, I feel freer to make decisions that are in line with who I am and what I want.
A few years ago Yacob wrote, "you have the deep-seated trait of not really knowing (or thinking you know) why you want what you want. I'd say you should be grateful for this, because it makes you unpredictable, which is not only entertaining but increases your power in your dealings with people, which you like." At the time I disagreed, but no longer. The whys don't matter so much as long as I pay attention to what I really want. So of course I'm studying a field that's largely about quantifying and trading-off and investigating the whys, and enjoying the hell out of it.
Sorry, you must be tired of looking at my navel. Instead go look at my new favourite comic: a softer world. I asked Kevin, who pointed me to it, where a softer world has been all my life. I am full to the brim of love for it, especially this one, and this one, and this one, and this one, and hell, just go through all the archives. That's an order, if I have any power in my dealings with you.
