At some point, I really will stop talking about London. It will fade as all things do and I will find myself telling stories and not remembering where the story took place, but remembering the people and what was said and how it was said and wasn't it just SO funny and WHERE WAS THAT when that happened?
But for now the memories are clear. They are maybe dull around the edges in that Hipstamatic way where the new looks old and the old looks new, but they are still there in their output. Maybe it's the sounds more than anything that make the memories clearer. In the morning as I leave my apartment, I still wait for that scratch scratch of my borough streetsweeper, cleaning up Shoreditch's last party. During my commute, I wait for the sounds of an approaching train--always the Jubilee line for some reason--and then the tube doors sweeping, whooshing shut, beep beep beep beep beep beep beep. And at night, while I lie in bed and marvel at Chicago's silence, I still wait for those police sirens to go on and on and on to somewhere that will turn out to be not in the paper the next day.
At times, I will find myself standing in front of the turnstile on the other end of an El journey, ticket in hand, ready to touch out, unsure of what to do next. Other times, in the dark of night and in my centrally-heated condominium--with an elevator no less--I will clumsily slap the wall outside my bathroom, trying to find the light switch.
Some mornings, hairdryer in hand, I marvel at my hair in the bathroom mirror; it's been a long time since I've been able to blow dry so well. And other times, I open up my freezer just to admire its contents. Ice. I like to turn the ice maker on. And off. As much ice as I want, anytime I want it. And frozen broccoli, frozen chicken, frozen turkey burgers, frozen string beans, and my personal favorite, frozen peas. In America, I survive on frozen everything. And hot sauce. Repatriation has been marked by a tremendous uptick in hot sauce consumption.
I buy milk and orange juice by the gallon. The GALLON! I ride the train and then the bus with a coffee in my hand. I spend weekends wandering the city in gym clothes. (Sometimes I go to the gym, sometimes I don't.)
I have a DVR now. It's fully loaded. DVRs are important in America because of the number of commercials. In between the reality shows, there are commercials on ALL THE TIME. And everyone is always SHOUTING about an 800 number or talking to me about depression or high blood pressure. I never knew I had depression and high blood pressure until I repatriated and turned the television on without the benefit of a DVR. But now I have a DVR so I don't think about these things too much. But I do wonder about who to vote for and if the candidate has indeed approved this message.
Sometimes my friends in America owe me money. "I'll write you a check," they tell me. I haven't seen a check since 2004. Checks are hard work. First, you need to sign the check. Then, you need to hope you don't lose it. And then you need to walk to the bank and deposit it. And then you need to wait like five days until the money is yours. And in between, your friends write you emails like "Can you make sure you deposit the check today because I might not have any money after that" or other emails like "Can you not deposit the check until next week because I probably won't have money until then." And all you want is your money and WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE SO HARD?
So then I'll turn the radio on. And Pearl Jam will be playing. Or Tom Petty. If it's Tom Petty, it's probably that song Free Falling. Free Falling is ALWAYS on American radio. You'll get the occasional Green Day, and in the summer in particular, you get that song by that guy who I see on Entertainment Tonight now. You know...the hot guy. With the cheekbones.
At parties now, I'm the one that arrives alone but always with the champagne. Nice champagne. Thoughtfully selected, but with an eye towards a good value because, you know, France is expensive these days. "Oh that's so nice of you" they gush. And "Wow! Champagne! Oooh!" And then "Champagne...what a surprise! We'll have to save this for a special occasion." They hand me a Miller Light or a glass of Yellow Tail Chardonnay and I sigh and I wonder "Isn't that special occasion right now?"
But for now the memories are clear. They are maybe dull around the edges in that Hipstamatic way where the new looks old and the old looks new, but they are still there in their output. Maybe it's the sounds more than anything that make the memories clearer. In the morning as I leave my apartment, I still wait for that scratch scratch of my borough streetsweeper, cleaning up Shoreditch's last party. During my commute, I wait for the sounds of an approaching train--always the Jubilee line for some reason--and then the tube doors sweeping, whooshing shut, beep beep beep beep beep beep beep. And at night, while I lie in bed and marvel at Chicago's silence, I still wait for those police sirens to go on and on and on to somewhere that will turn out to be not in the paper the next day.
At times, I will find myself standing in front of the turnstile on the other end of an El journey, ticket in hand, ready to touch out, unsure of what to do next. Other times, in the dark of night and in my centrally-heated condominium--with an elevator no less--I will clumsily slap the wall outside my bathroom, trying to find the light switch.
Some mornings, hairdryer in hand, I marvel at my hair in the bathroom mirror; it's been a long time since I've been able to blow dry so well. And other times, I open up my freezer just to admire its contents. Ice. I like to turn the ice maker on. And off. As much ice as I want, anytime I want it. And frozen broccoli, frozen chicken, frozen turkey burgers, frozen string beans, and my personal favorite, frozen peas. In America, I survive on frozen everything. And hot sauce. Repatriation has been marked by a tremendous uptick in hot sauce consumption.
I buy milk and orange juice by the gallon. The GALLON! I ride the train and then the bus with a coffee in my hand. I spend weekends wandering the city in gym clothes. (Sometimes I go to the gym, sometimes I don't.)
I have a DVR now. It's fully loaded. DVRs are important in America because of the number of commercials. In between the reality shows, there are commercials on ALL THE TIME. And everyone is always SHOUTING about an 800 number or talking to me about depression or high blood pressure. I never knew I had depression and high blood pressure until I repatriated and turned the television on without the benefit of a DVR. But now I have a DVR so I don't think about these things too much. But I do wonder about who to vote for and if the candidate has indeed approved this message.
Sometimes my friends in America owe me money. "I'll write you a check," they tell me. I haven't seen a check since 2004. Checks are hard work. First, you need to sign the check. Then, you need to hope you don't lose it. And then you need to walk to the bank and deposit it. And then you need to wait like five days until the money is yours. And in between, your friends write you emails like "Can you make sure you deposit the check today because I might not have any money after that" or other emails like "Can you not deposit the check until next week because I probably won't have money until then." And all you want is your money and WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE SO HARD?
So then I'll turn the radio on. And Pearl Jam will be playing. Or Tom Petty. If it's Tom Petty, it's probably that song Free Falling. Free Falling is ALWAYS on American radio. You'll get the occasional Green Day, and in the summer in particular, you get that song by that guy who I see on Entertainment Tonight now. You know...the hot guy. With the cheekbones.
At parties now, I'm the one that arrives alone but always with the champagne. Nice champagne. Thoughtfully selected, but with an eye towards a good value because, you know, France is expensive these days. "Oh that's so nice of you" they gush. And "Wow! Champagne! Oooh!" And then "Champagne...what a surprise! We'll have to save this for a special occasion." They hand me a Miller Light or a glass of Yellow Tail Chardonnay and I sigh and I wonder "Isn't that special occasion right now?"
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