And spaceboy they'll kill me before I'm dead and gone
London is perhaps one of the easiest cities to navigate by public transport. And thank fuck for that.
I hauled my sorry bones to the library once again this morning. After about 45 minutes of trying to read about the state-sanctioned North Korean pop band Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble (better known simply as PEE in The Socialist Paradise), the pebble in my shoe became too much for me. Yes, a pebble. In my shoe. There is a huge gaping hole where the upper material meets the sole. Figuring that next time it might be a heroin needle, I decided to indulge in a little retail therapy, which, in London, is more like booking a week at Wonderland tbh bb.
Within about five minutes of my leaving SOAS, I was sitting on a Gower Street bus. About an hour later, we had moved nearly five entire feet. Oxford Street, my chosen destination for its convenience, is one of those places that requires a lot of transit time, especially if you are trying to get there from somewhere that is actually pretty close-by. It is very London like that.
Sitting there, I realized lot less is taken lightly in London compared to North American cities: the buses have two decks, parks are more like manicured forests, even ambulance sirens sound more urgent--especially when they are trapped behind said buses. Sure the whole city shuts down after half an inch of snowfall (lololololol), but in theory London's infrastructure is much more elaborate than say, Montreal's. As for something like shopping? Serious as grandma's hallucinations (case in point: Harrod's).
Maybe all that has something to do with why in the news, candid AP pictures of Americans are sometimes captioned so-and-so looking retarded relaxed. Whether or not Americans are actually more laid back than British people in general is something I am not really prepared to take sides on, but every time I try to mentally defend the British newspaper POV all I can think of is my mother and New Jersey-born aunt fighting over who ate the last few bites of leftover potato salad in the refrigerator one fateful September night. Even the memory makes my ears ring. Uuuughhshijkashdjksahdjk.
At any rate, between Kate Moss's guest-designer-BS hot pants and Kylie's...waterproof hot pants I didn't find what I was looking for. Pathetic? Maybe. It wasn't a total waste, though. In the basement of the Topshop that straddles Regent Street and Oxford Circus, a Smiths song came on. It was one of those moments I wish I could write to myself in 2002 about, in a big cheesy postcard or something--if only to say hey look I am here. PS you are still an idiot.
I hauled my sorry bones to the library once again this morning. After about 45 minutes of trying to read about the state-sanctioned North Korean pop band Pochonbo Electronic Ensemble (better known simply as PEE in The Socialist Paradise), the pebble in my shoe became too much for me. Yes, a pebble. In my shoe. There is a huge gaping hole where the upper material meets the sole. Figuring that next time it might be a heroin needle, I decided to indulge in a little retail therapy, which, in London, is more like booking a week at Wonderland tbh bb.
Within about five minutes of my leaving SOAS, I was sitting on a Gower Street bus. About an hour later, we had moved nearly five entire feet. Oxford Street, my chosen destination for its convenience, is one of those places that requires a lot of transit time, especially if you are trying to get there from somewhere that is actually pretty close-by. It is very London like that.
Sitting there, I realized lot less is taken lightly in London compared to North American cities: the buses have two decks, parks are more like manicured forests, even ambulance sirens sound more urgent--especially when they are trapped behind said buses. Sure the whole city shuts down after half an inch of snowfall (lololololol), but in theory London's infrastructure is much more elaborate than say, Montreal's. As for something like shopping? Serious as grandma's hallucinations (case in point: Harrod's).
Maybe all that has something to do with why in the news, candid AP pictures of Americans are sometimes captioned so-and-so looking retarded relaxed. Whether or not Americans are actually more laid back than British people in general is something I am not really prepared to take sides on, but every time I try to mentally defend the British newspaper POV all I can think of is my mother and New Jersey-born aunt fighting over who ate the last few bites of leftover potato salad in the refrigerator one fateful September night. Even the memory makes my ears ring. Uuuughhshijkashdjksahdjk.
At any rate, between Kate Moss's guest-designer-BS hot pants and Kylie's...waterproof hot pants I didn't find what I was looking for. Pathetic? Maybe. It wasn't a total waste, though. In the basement of the Topshop that straddles Regent Street and Oxford Circus, a Smiths song came on. It was one of those moments I wish I could write to myself in 2002 about, in a big cheesy postcard or something--if only to say hey look I am here. PS you are still an idiot.