[Lyon Impressions: II]
It's raining again. I don't think it can even rain in England more than it's been raining here lately. Rain everyday, and when it's not rain, it's snow that melts into morning puddles, or soppy hail that turns to water as soon as it hits the ground. And it's not like it's respectable rain at that. I wouldn't complain if it really rained: thick, soupy rain that fell in great draughts from a turbulent sky, roiling with heavy clouds. That kind of rain one can admire. But this is measely, drizzly rain, one that starts and stops again as if moved by nothing but laziness, too faint to even really be called rain, but just persistent enough to warrant an umbrella. And the sky is that color which is no color: not white, but not grey, a dirty empty sheet hanging over the city.
The only place where the rain does not make me disgusted is my island. Several friends who were over to my house recently said that the gloomy weather works well for it, what with all the crumbling medieval stones and such, and that it must be what England is like.
That immediately made me like it much better, and it does indeed remind me of the English moors. Specifically the side of the island that slopes down to the river, the side without houses. It is a barren, rocky, windy terrain, populated with sparse black trees and scattered bushes on the muddy ground. The island forms into miniature cliffs as it approaches the water, where the fog lies heavy in the morning and night, and waves lap their grey tongues at the rocks and grasses.
The other side of the island is particularly beautiful after dark. The houses form silent, sombre silhoettes, except for the chapel, which is always lit up and stands glowing against the sky. Walking there, I feel like a romance novel heroine: the twisted stone passageways, the old, gnarled trees covered with moss, the decaying ivy-covered walls and iron-barred arched doorways, all seem the property of some silent movie or Gothic romance. There is one part in particular, where a narrow passage gives way to a high, steep cliff, on the top of which a mansion with a barred gate rises into the night. The passageway turns and closes in, until it comes to a lofty arch, leading to a steep dark road that goes out to the very water. Looking back, the houses all crowd together, and their turrets and gateways and half-ruined structures seem to form one large feudal mass, as of some dark lord of fantasy lore.
And other thing, do you know how perfect? It turns out that the island is well know for something else as well: gay couples meet under the bridge that crosses it at night. I asked my host father why, and he replied that that's just how it's always been. And it's true, each weekend you can see cars drive up under the bridge and park silently in the dark. It is a nice place, with benches stationed near a discreet alcove, and though there are lights, half of the ground is always in shadow.
But enough about the island--I'll be leaving it soon after all. Perhaps a good thing, as I *would* like to be closer to the city.
So... on to more mundane stuff. Forgot my disk in the computer lab yesterday: to day it was gone, most likely stolen. Damn. All my letters to you, Lottie, plus some school things and other random bits... nothing irreplaceable, but a lot of fairly personal stuff that I wouldn't much fancy anyone reading. Oh well, perhaps they don't know English, or will be kind enough to delete all my files before using the disk for their own purposes.
I met a nice french girl the other day, who quite surprised me. I had thought the french weren't supposed to be friendly, but that's very not true. I dropped some stuff behind her chair, and she started talking to me, and was extremely sweet, and gave me her cell phone number when we walked out of class together, saying she'd text me if she had any plans. She also invited me to some sort of play, which I think however falls on the same time as out first vacation, which means I'll be back in the US. Pity.
But yes, I would in fact say that most Americans wouldn't be so quick to exchange numbers, etc, with people they just met. And Severine, the girl I met on the Placebo board and with whom I went not-skiing this weekend is just absolutely lovely and friendly and everything, so yes. Don't believe cultural stereotypes.
Hmmm. I should text Severine. Or maybe not, I think seeing me three times in two weeks, plus spending a weekend with me is more than enough for anyone.
(Lottie darling, how *will* you bear it?)
Right. And I got Marc Bolan shoes yesterday. Or mary-jane type shoes, close enough. Have also been working on some more Marc fanart and attempting not to cry when listening to "The Slider." Why that album makes me want to fall down sobbing I have no idea, isn't generally perceived as something along of "a celebration of glam rock flamboyance at its height"? Some celebration, listening to it feels somewhat akin to being repeatedly stabbed with sharp, cold knives. If I don't really pay attention when listening to it, I'm ok though.
Ok, now a Vicky-part, as promised. :)
I miss Vicky. I miss going on for ages about whatever my current interest was to her, and her actually paying attention. I also hope Vicky bloody remembers she's my proxy in the housing selection for next year. :) Vicky has a stuffed Cheburashka, and it sings. Vicky also has weird friends. And Vicky should post in her own livejournal.
Vicky, after all, has an exciting life, being Queen of the Bog People, and being man and woman at once, or something. She shall explain.
I think I have to go now, goodness. Bunny, don't you worry, you are cool. Alice-love, write me an email. Fuchsia darling, I don't mean to be stroppy, but coming online 20 mins before I have to go is just cruel! Oh, you want nice? All right then, come online and I'll write tons of nice things about you! I do love you when you aren't making me sulk you know. I might even post another poem. All about how gorgeous you are, and everything.
The only place where the rain does not make me disgusted is my island. Several friends who were over to my house recently said that the gloomy weather works well for it, what with all the crumbling medieval stones and such, and that it must be what England is like.
That immediately made me like it much better, and it does indeed remind me of the English moors. Specifically the side of the island that slopes down to the river, the side without houses. It is a barren, rocky, windy terrain, populated with sparse black trees and scattered bushes on the muddy ground. The island forms into miniature cliffs as it approaches the water, where the fog lies heavy in the morning and night, and waves lap their grey tongues at the rocks and grasses.
The other side of the island is particularly beautiful after dark. The houses form silent, sombre silhoettes, except for the chapel, which is always lit up and stands glowing against the sky. Walking there, I feel like a romance novel heroine: the twisted stone passageways, the old, gnarled trees covered with moss, the decaying ivy-covered walls and iron-barred arched doorways, all seem the property of some silent movie or Gothic romance. There is one part in particular, where a narrow passage gives way to a high, steep cliff, on the top of which a mansion with a barred gate rises into the night. The passageway turns and closes in, until it comes to a lofty arch, leading to a steep dark road that goes out to the very water. Looking back, the houses all crowd together, and their turrets and gateways and half-ruined structures seem to form one large feudal mass, as of some dark lord of fantasy lore.
And other thing, do you know how perfect? It turns out that the island is well know for something else as well: gay couples meet under the bridge that crosses it at night. I asked my host father why, and he replied that that's just how it's always been. And it's true, each weekend you can see cars drive up under the bridge and park silently in the dark. It is a nice place, with benches stationed near a discreet alcove, and though there are lights, half of the ground is always in shadow.
But enough about the island--I'll be leaving it soon after all. Perhaps a good thing, as I *would* like to be closer to the city.
So... on to more mundane stuff. Forgot my disk in the computer lab yesterday: to day it was gone, most likely stolen. Damn. All my letters to you, Lottie, plus some school things and other random bits... nothing irreplaceable, but a lot of fairly personal stuff that I wouldn't much fancy anyone reading. Oh well, perhaps they don't know English, or will be kind enough to delete all my files before using the disk for their own purposes.
I met a nice french girl the other day, who quite surprised me. I had thought the french weren't supposed to be friendly, but that's very not true. I dropped some stuff behind her chair, and she started talking to me, and was extremely sweet, and gave me her cell phone number when we walked out of class together, saying she'd text me if she had any plans. She also invited me to some sort of play, which I think however falls on the same time as out first vacation, which means I'll be back in the US. Pity.
But yes, I would in fact say that most Americans wouldn't be so quick to exchange numbers, etc, with people they just met. And Severine, the girl I met on the Placebo board and with whom I went not-skiing this weekend is just absolutely lovely and friendly and everything, so yes. Don't believe cultural stereotypes.
Hmmm. I should text Severine. Or maybe not, I think seeing me three times in two weeks, plus spending a weekend with me is more than enough for anyone.
(Lottie darling, how *will* you bear it?)
Right. And I got Marc Bolan shoes yesterday. Or mary-jane type shoes, close enough. Have also been working on some more Marc fanart and attempting not to cry when listening to "The Slider." Why that album makes me want to fall down sobbing I have no idea, isn't generally perceived as something along of "a celebration of glam rock flamboyance at its height"? Some celebration, listening to it feels somewhat akin to being repeatedly stabbed with sharp, cold knives. If I don't really pay attention when listening to it, I'm ok though.
Ok, now a Vicky-part, as promised. :)
I miss Vicky. I miss going on for ages about whatever my current interest was to her, and her actually paying attention. I also hope Vicky bloody remembers she's my proxy in the housing selection for next year. :) Vicky has a stuffed Cheburashka, and it sings. Vicky also has weird friends. And Vicky should post in her own livejournal.
Vicky, after all, has an exciting life, being Queen of the Bog People, and being man and woman at once, or something. She shall explain.
I think I have to go now, goodness. Bunny, don't you worry, you are cool. Alice-love, write me an email. Fuchsia darling, I don't mean to be stroppy, but coming online 20 mins before I have to go is just cruel! Oh, you want nice? All right then, come online and I'll write tons of nice things about you! I do love you when you aren't making me sulk you know. I might even post another poem. All about how gorgeous you are, and everything.