The tourist, it seems, is the lowest of the low. No other group has such a uniformly bad press. Tourists are continually subject to sneers and have no antidefamation league. Animal imagery seems their inevitable lot: they are said to move in droves, herds, swarms, or flocks; they are as mindless and docile as sheep but as annoying as a plague of insects when they descend upon a spot they have ‘discovered’.
(Culler 1990)
thanks jessie for sending me this article. it arrived at a nice time, when i'm processing my own 'away' existence that lies somewhere between tourist/resident, and in which i'm guilty of seeking a more authentic experience of awayness.
lenny and i chatted today about our different styles of photographing paris. he says he gets my everyday thing, but asks how the tour eiffel is not also part of the everyday. he argues that for many parisians it is. a few days ago (at the pompidou) he asked me to photograph him with the tour eiffel in the distant background. i didn't want to but eventually did. i felt conflicted. he says he can't understand my hatred of this monument. i explain that my hatred is not of the monument (i've never 'really' seen it), but of its symbolism. i hate that for many, it is paris. and i guess i hate that it interferes with my paris.
neither of us would photograph sydney opera house. i suggest that it's pointless because, like the tour eiffel, you can just google it and there it is, shot from every possible angle. so why bother? i don't need to see the tour eiffel to know its shape. i can't not know it. i can't not imagine it. and i guess my refusal to visit it (let alone photograph it) could be about my struggle for authenticity, as Culler suggests. for in doing so, i raise myself above the 'herd'.
and yes, i love it when i get mistaken for a local, when french people ask for directions. it means i'm passing, that i'm falling into step with the locals. when i walk the streets with a bag of groceries, bread, food to prepare at home, i'm a resident. i have a kitchen, a bed, a door code, a place to not simply stay, but to live (whatever that means). and these walls belong to a subleasing resident; this is not a hotel. i fend for myself, and this makes it more real to me. yet i also understand that it's not real. this experience is very much mediated by my being away from home. tourist or not, i do not belong here. and whilst i might pretend, i know that this is pretense.
this neighbourhood houses no monuments and there's little english spoken here. there are piles of broken furniture on the streets, discarded xmas trees, posses of french-african teens on corners. this is a paris i feel more comfortable with because it's uncomfortable. it's different to my usual existence and i'm forced to contemplate this broken furniture (evictions?), my concerns about 'gangs', my understandings of poverty, violence, immigration, noise, mess, etc. the domestic argument that echoed through the stairwell a few days ago was difficult to stomach. but it's there (with or without me) and i guess i'd rather 'experience' it if this can help to broaden/complicate my understanding of how people live.
i can accept that this neighbourhood might even be hostile to me and my bourgeois pursuit of the everyday. it probably should be. and i should be made to question that. and this tension of wanting to belong but knowing that i cannot is one i quite enjoy. it generates material to contemplate, write, and grapple with.
so yes, partly this is about a pursuit of authenticity, but i think it's something else too. i don't think i fit into either of the camps that Culler discusses - the tourist or the traveler. for there's no touring and very little traveling. i'm just staying, and most of my time is spent in my neighbourhood or in my apartment. so my distaste for tourism is not simply to conjure my authenticity, though obviously it's useful in elevating myself higher towards a more original experience of paris (therefore, it conjures my paris).
my suitcase has been stowed away, hidden, out of sight. my fridge is stocked like at home, but not, because it has food that i don't eat at home, things that aren't readily available there. but there are similar habits, practices, routines that stay with me wherever i go. and so here in my paris, i'm both here and there, home and away, myself and not myself. i think in english and (attempt to) speak in french. schizophrenic, i lose my way on these streets. lost, i happen upon pastries whose flavours take me elsewhere.
this morning i walked along a canal. i walked over bridges, under bridges, and past bridges. it was new territory but not too far from 'home'. i ate an almond croissant which i believed to be the best almond croissant i'd ever tasted. i made a mental note of the patisserie location, for i hope to return. yet i know that i might not because experience tells me that i forget locations, that i lose my way, that in seeking an old patisserie i'm more likely to discover a new one. and maybe it's not really the best almond croissant anyway because my memory isn't perfect and the amount of pastry i consume is quite high. but i like to think it's the best, particularly there, in the moment when i'm walking the cold morning streets and feeling its warmth and sweetness fall inside me.
perhaps nothing of that moment was new or authentic. yet surely a spasm of pleasure that resembles something new is just as good, if not better, than the real thing. and maybe that's the paris that i can carry with me always, wherever i go, like a tour eiffel pendant.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
né pour courir
...means 'born to run'. i found the expression accidentally, in researching a writer i long to read. so i added it to my spreadsheet of new words, as i push myself closer to reading new books, and old books in a new language. or the language they were born into.
christine angot writes autofiction. having explained my style of writing, a french man/lover told me my writing sounds like this. so i'm curious, and want to read.
today i remember bruce springsteen and how i haven't listened to the born to run album in quite some time. i play it now.
yesterday i went to the pompidou. i didn't want to, but was seduced by the mondrian exhibition. i also liked the sound of Gabriel Orozco's work, which is about celebrating the everyday. but i was underwhelmed. then i walked into the Saãdane Afif exhibit, Anthologie de l'humour noir (anthology of black humour, a reference to Breton), and i smiled a lot.
in the centre of the room is a sculpture of the pompidou as coffin. on the walls are song lyrics by 12 friends of sàadane whom were asked to respond to the sculpture. there's a few aluminium cylinders cast from a mould of a pompidou bollard (also commissioned works), but they are barely noticeable, despite intermittent spotlights falling upon them. they are dead matter. unlike the words on the wall, which of course, are all about death - of art, artists, institutions, and more. funny, absurd, satirical, words.
i didn't want to visit galleries. this is a first for me in paris. i wince at being amongst the cattle of cultural tourists, or at the thought of appreciating art as isolated, singular, evenly spaced works propped high on white walls. i know that my attitude is a little ridiculous, and thankfully, i had to eat my bias here, in this room, surrounded by words about the morgue, the cemetery, death and decay. the erosion of art and its institutions. and yes, i found myself nourished. the death of art is alive and well in paris.
how can i not fall in love with the institution that houses a celebration of its own decay? or the artist that makes this (but doesn't, because he commissions much of the work)? he's a collaborationist, which is as beautiful as the black humour, the referencing, the ensemble surrounding me. mostly, for me, it's about the words, but they can't be separated from the artist, the institution, the networks between them, or the responses i have. the songs are in english and french (half of each) and i manage to comprehend most of the latter. they're not sung, but printed on a wall, so they too are dead. but also they're not, because the reader gives them life.
where i don't comprehend words and phrases, i skim, i make meaning. i fall in love via my own skewed interpretation. much like how i fall in love with people. it's about my experience of the assembled words, objects, feelings, and not the thing itself (the art work). in the room i'm connected to artists/people both dead and alive. i'm drawn into a politics of the past (1968, surrealism, anarchy, etc), yet a politics still to come. dismantling and erosion takes place in this room, but it's also the sound of a future death. a rumble, an almost, a could-be. a mire of words and sensations that i can't quite crystallise with my own words, but of course, i want to. and of course, there's the beauty. what is beyond me seduces me. it moves me, or rather it propels me, to run towards something.
j'étais né pour courir.
j'étais né pour mourir.
christine angot writes autofiction. having explained my style of writing, a french man/lover told me my writing sounds like this. so i'm curious, and want to read.
today i remember bruce springsteen and how i haven't listened to the born to run album in quite some time. i play it now.
yesterday i went to the pompidou. i didn't want to, but was seduced by the mondrian exhibition. i also liked the sound of Gabriel Orozco's work, which is about celebrating the everyday. but i was underwhelmed. then i walked into the Saãdane Afif exhibit, Anthologie de l'humour noir (anthology of black humour, a reference to Breton), and i smiled a lot.
in the centre of the room is a sculpture of the pompidou as coffin. on the walls are song lyrics by 12 friends of sàadane whom were asked to respond to the sculpture. there's a few aluminium cylinders cast from a mould of a pompidou bollard (also commissioned works), but they are barely noticeable, despite intermittent spotlights falling upon them. they are dead matter. unlike the words on the wall, which of course, are all about death - of art, artists, institutions, and more. funny, absurd, satirical, words.
i didn't want to visit galleries. this is a first for me in paris. i wince at being amongst the cattle of cultural tourists, or at the thought of appreciating art as isolated, singular, evenly spaced works propped high on white walls. i know that my attitude is a little ridiculous, and thankfully, i had to eat my bias here, in this room, surrounded by words about the morgue, the cemetery, death and decay. the erosion of art and its institutions. and yes, i found myself nourished. the death of art is alive and well in paris.
how can i not fall in love with the institution that houses a celebration of its own decay? or the artist that makes this (but doesn't, because he commissions much of the work)? he's a collaborationist, which is as beautiful as the black humour, the referencing, the ensemble surrounding me. mostly, for me, it's about the words, but they can't be separated from the artist, the institution, the networks between them, or the responses i have. the songs are in english and french (half of each) and i manage to comprehend most of the latter. they're not sung, but printed on a wall, so they too are dead. but also they're not, because the reader gives them life.
where i don't comprehend words and phrases, i skim, i make meaning. i fall in love via my own skewed interpretation. much like how i fall in love with people. it's about my experience of the assembled words, objects, feelings, and not the thing itself (the art work). in the room i'm connected to artists/people both dead and alive. i'm drawn into a politics of the past (1968, surrealism, anarchy, etc), yet a politics still to come. dismantling and erosion takes place in this room, but it's also the sound of a future death. a rumble, an almost, a could-be. a mire of words and sensations that i can't quite crystallise with my own words, but of course, i want to. and of course, there's the beauty. what is beyond me seduces me. it moves me, or rather it propels me, to run towards something.
j'étais né pour courir.
j'étais né pour mourir.
Friday, December 31, 2010
ready to start
slept in again. lenny and i tend to fall into bed at around 2am, so i guess that's why. and it's overcast today. i counted the church bells at 11, then again at 12. shortly afterward i'm here in the kitchen, reading excited messages about nye on facebook. yes, it's almost time to start 2011 there. but i have 11 hours to go.
life's good when your main concern in the morning is whether to finish off the rye bread or go and get some fresh croissants. i try to convince myself that the latter is necessary for this 'special day'. but i don't really believe that, so rye it is.
last night i had another dream which involved something sexual with someone i dislike very much. that's two nights in a row. these are people i've spoken and written about in unfavourable terms. yet in each of the dreams they revealed some frailty, need, and affection. perhaps the lesson is to accept that bullying and egotism come from insecurities, and are not innate in such people. a nice message from my unconscious, but really, i could do without the imagined sensation of their bodies pressed into mine. even if was enjoying it (until the rupture of waking).
my 5 best albums of 2010:
of montreal - fake priest
los campesinos! - romance is boring
arcade fire - the suburbs
stars - the five ghosts
beach house - teen dream
i can't imagine liking 2010 half as much if this music didn't exist. i recall getting stars and arcade fire around the same time, and alternating the two. stars plays as i walk to bourke st bakery for a loaf of bread. it's not a short walk - long enough to hear most of the album, there and back. and i step to the beat of a more pop sound from them, which i decide, en route, that i'm happy with. yes, this is a good album. and it's all about ghosts. and nobody can see me when i'm plugged into the stereo, walking this path, in the late morning of a weekday.
arcade fire's 'ready to start' had me holding my fists in my pockets, lest i should start punching the air at the bus stop. this is the sound of breaking through something, a wall, a roof, a barrier in place for so long that it appears to be a normal obstacle that one cannot challenge. but here it is. a blend of anger and hope, but mainly the latter, and a promise of something lovely that might come with persistence, determination, and saying yes to what i might otherwise fear. at the airport i felt ready to start, even in the absence of this song.
i show joal some beach house earlier in the year. i'd been listening to it on the way to his house, once again floating along the streets of marrickville. he seemed to like it. we had coffee and talked about boys, and then i played it some more. later i would miss out on tickets to the sydney gig, which is around the time i return home. later still (as in last week) i would be fucking a beautiful skinny man to this album. the sound moved with his body and mine, and then evaporated with the smoke floating from his cigarette as he crouched on the bed, naked and softened. he shows me the view of the sacre coeur from his balcony, and farewells me into the night.
of montreal is when jessie is away and the house is often empty and so the stereo volume increases as i eat my breakfast and this album is played. it's waking up rebellious, playing sounds and lyrics in which nothing is sacred. fuck this, fuck everything, and oh my, this bit sounds like prince. yes. it's a big dose of pleasure in my own company, in my space, with a soundtrack fitting for me, then and there, in my beautiful discontent. fuck everything indeed.
and then there's los campesinos! which was a high for pretty much the entire year (although it's been absent for the last month). this and of montreal are my two obsessions of 2010. i'm more of a missionary with this band, and introduce it to friends, all of whom seem to like it. i feel myself smiling on the bus. i watch myself almost collide with a car entering enmore rd because i'm listening too damn hard. but i don't flinch. car can wait. and i decide on a bus heading to uni that i'll make a zine of collage to this album (for this album) because it's messy, disordered, chaotic, and amusing. and it's where my life exactly was, at that point. but maybe i'm coming out of that stage now. so maybe the zine can't happen. and maybe i'm ready for something new that can shape itself around my 2011, whatever that may taste like.
life's good when your main concern in the morning is whether to finish off the rye bread or go and get some fresh croissants. i try to convince myself that the latter is necessary for this 'special day'. but i don't really believe that, so rye it is.
last night i had another dream which involved something sexual with someone i dislike very much. that's two nights in a row. these are people i've spoken and written about in unfavourable terms. yet in each of the dreams they revealed some frailty, need, and affection. perhaps the lesson is to accept that bullying and egotism come from insecurities, and are not innate in such people. a nice message from my unconscious, but really, i could do without the imagined sensation of their bodies pressed into mine. even if was enjoying it (until the rupture of waking).
my 5 best albums of 2010:
of montreal - fake priest
los campesinos! - romance is boring
arcade fire - the suburbs
stars - the five ghosts
beach house - teen dream
i can't imagine liking 2010 half as much if this music didn't exist. i recall getting stars and arcade fire around the same time, and alternating the two. stars plays as i walk to bourke st bakery for a loaf of bread. it's not a short walk - long enough to hear most of the album, there and back. and i step to the beat of a more pop sound from them, which i decide, en route, that i'm happy with. yes, this is a good album. and it's all about ghosts. and nobody can see me when i'm plugged into the stereo, walking this path, in the late morning of a weekday.
arcade fire's 'ready to start' had me holding my fists in my pockets, lest i should start punching the air at the bus stop. this is the sound of breaking through something, a wall, a roof, a barrier in place for so long that it appears to be a normal obstacle that one cannot challenge. but here it is. a blend of anger and hope, but mainly the latter, and a promise of something lovely that might come with persistence, determination, and saying yes to what i might otherwise fear. at the airport i felt ready to start, even in the absence of this song.
i show joal some beach house earlier in the year. i'd been listening to it on the way to his house, once again floating along the streets of marrickville. he seemed to like it. we had coffee and talked about boys, and then i played it some more. later i would miss out on tickets to the sydney gig, which is around the time i return home. later still (as in last week) i would be fucking a beautiful skinny man to this album. the sound moved with his body and mine, and then evaporated with the smoke floating from his cigarette as he crouched on the bed, naked and softened. he shows me the view of the sacre coeur from his balcony, and farewells me into the night.
of montreal is when jessie is away and the house is often empty and so the stereo volume increases as i eat my breakfast and this album is played. it's waking up rebellious, playing sounds and lyrics in which nothing is sacred. fuck this, fuck everything, and oh my, this bit sounds like prince. yes. it's a big dose of pleasure in my own company, in my space, with a soundtrack fitting for me, then and there, in my beautiful discontent. fuck everything indeed.
and then there's los campesinos! which was a high for pretty much the entire year (although it's been absent for the last month). this and of montreal are my two obsessions of 2010. i'm more of a missionary with this band, and introduce it to friends, all of whom seem to like it. i feel myself smiling on the bus. i watch myself almost collide with a car entering enmore rd because i'm listening too damn hard. but i don't flinch. car can wait. and i decide on a bus heading to uni that i'll make a zine of collage to this album (for this album) because it's messy, disordered, chaotic, and amusing. and it's where my life exactly was, at that point. but maybe i'm coming out of that stage now. so maybe the zine can't happen. and maybe i'm ready for something new that can shape itself around my 2011, whatever that may taste like.
Friday, December 24, 2010
finding things in the snow
it's zero degrees with light snow. once again i'm sitting on the bed. i've just eaten a croissant. i drink coffee. this all feels pleasant.
the snow fascinates me. i can't stop being in awe of the whiteness on the ground, in the sky, or the floating particles in the air. but it's also the cold that arrives with it - that which makes you lift your shoulders, put our hands into fists, and walk briskly (yet carefully, so as not to slip).
my boots are too tight, but hopefully they'll stretch to accommodate me. i like that wearing them enables me to tread in puddles and ice without concern for getting wet toes. i like the noise of the zips when i get home and shed them along with jacket, hat and scarf. it's a ritual i'm getting used to. another comfort, like the food, the snow, and the sound of my own voice reading aloud from newspapers and books (my school time). i read slowly, defying all punctuation, like i would if i was 5. and i guess i'm a child here. my gloved hands and restrictive clothing are that of a child. as is my wonder. and my wide eyed lust for knowledge.
i've been invited to a xmas/birthday party of my landlord, but i'm not sure. it made me anxious at first. i'll have to be social. i'll have to communicate. i'll feel dumb when they speak french. but i guess i should go, if only for an hour.
yesterday i shared some naan with may, an old friend from another life. it was a lovely reminder that i'm not the only one changing. sometimes i arrogantly believe that nobody but me (and close friends) are changing, complex, beings. and i guess i feel that my trajectory is special. but it's really not. because we're all spiraling, and this is good, because sometimes it means we can meet again, au hasard (randomly) and differently.
and today i have a date with a man whose name i don't even know. he's not from here either. he'll speak with a spanish accent. again, two strangers at a table. paris belongs to no-one.
the snow fascinates me. i can't stop being in awe of the whiteness on the ground, in the sky, or the floating particles in the air. but it's also the cold that arrives with it - that which makes you lift your shoulders, put our hands into fists, and walk briskly (yet carefully, so as not to slip).
my boots are too tight, but hopefully they'll stretch to accommodate me. i like that wearing them enables me to tread in puddles and ice without concern for getting wet toes. i like the noise of the zips when i get home and shed them along with jacket, hat and scarf. it's a ritual i'm getting used to. another comfort, like the food, the snow, and the sound of my own voice reading aloud from newspapers and books (my school time). i read slowly, defying all punctuation, like i would if i was 5. and i guess i'm a child here. my gloved hands and restrictive clothing are that of a child. as is my wonder. and my wide eyed lust for knowledge.
i've been invited to a xmas/birthday party of my landlord, but i'm not sure. it made me anxious at first. i'll have to be social. i'll have to communicate. i'll feel dumb when they speak french. but i guess i should go, if only for an hour.
yesterday i shared some naan with may, an old friend from another life. it was a lovely reminder that i'm not the only one changing. sometimes i arrogantly believe that nobody but me (and close friends) are changing, complex, beings. and i guess i feel that my trajectory is special. but it's really not. because we're all spiraling, and this is good, because sometimes it means we can meet again, au hasard (randomly) and differently.
and today i have a date with a man whose name i don't even know. he's not from here either. he'll speak with a spanish accent. again, two strangers at a table. paris belongs to no-one.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
percolate
i'm enjoying this moment. it consists of me sitting in a fold-out-couch bed in an apartment on the border of paris, just outside the 19eme. it's cold outside, temperature gauge at the window says 5 degrees, which is warmer than yesterday, and explains why most of the snow has melted. the heating is on. i just made a percolated coffee and i sip from a yellow mug. i eat white chocolate with whole hazelnuts. i woke at 5am, unable to get back to sleep, still jetlagged. i've chatted to people back home and we compared notes on where we're at. it's almost xmas. a playful argument with essy is imbued with film and book recommendations, which i can't keep track of. i don't record them, but i know he'll remind me again. or maybe we'll watch some of these films back in sydney. i can't believe he didn't like crime and punishment. jessie is sick in bed, i'm just in bed. and there's intimacy and familiarity in such conversations which are as comforting as this coffee. i've not had coffee since i arrived here. the bad coffee in toyko made me give it up. and now i'm tasting a new, yet familiar, flavour. just as i'm tasting snow for the first time, and this apartment, which is strange to me despite my clothes hanging from the curtain rail, shower, and drying rack by the heater. since i stopped chatting (or rather, typing) to the folk back home, i can hear the silence. and my fingers tapping keys sound similar to snow tapping rooftops. but there's no snow today, just a softer shade of cold. and there's me, alone (but not alone) in this apartment. and there's me moving to the kitchen shortly, to take another cup of coffee.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
timeless, rainless
today the rain was gone. no umbrella necessary, though i packed one just in case. most of the time my jacket was in my hand. yet i bought another jacket, for france. it's green and water/snow proof. now i can conquer the world. it was pretty cheap too. i also picked up some warm socks. and a bunch of stationery etc - small things that will fit in my suitcase. and then i discovered the supermarket around the corner. just now i'm eating spinach with sesame paste, and some sweet potato thing. i'm sitting in the common area because the loud canadians went to bed. i suspect everyone in my room is scared of them, so we read or do stuff on our beds. the new french couple are skyping with someone in their room, probably unaware that the walls are paper thin and everyone can hear them. the quiet cute boy just reemerged and is on one of the common room PCs. we sit and type, back to back. still no words from him today but there's always tomorrow.
my phone died so i can't even use it as a clock. this means i never know the time. i check on my ipod intermittently. i did so tonight at Roppongi and freaked out that it was 11.30. i read something about the trains stopping at midnight so i scurried off to the train. only at the station did i realise that the ipod had reverted to sydney time. i knew i got quite distracted by the light show i happened upon, but yes, not that distracted. then i walked home from Ueno station and stopped by the supermarket for a can of Asahi for 198 yen. nice.
my phone died so i can't even use it as a clock. this means i never know the time. i check on my ipod intermittently. i did so tonight at Roppongi and freaked out that it was 11.30. i read something about the trains stopping at midnight so i scurried off to the train. only at the station did i realise that the ipod had reverted to sydney time. i knew i got quite distracted by the light show i happened upon, but yes, not that distracted. then i walked home from Ueno station and stopped by the supermarket for a can of Asahi for 198 yen. nice.
Monday, December 13, 2010
tokyo rain
it rained all day in tokyo. but it wasn't too heavy. it was, however, very cold. i almost bought a pair of gloves but they were average so i decided to hold out for mittens. the search continues tomorrow.
i'm lying atop a bunk bed which is my bed for these five days. people are chatting in the common area (canadians, i think) and i've opted for a quieter spot. especially after my day. not that i spoke to anyone. but i absorbed a lot. and i can't really give words to it because i'm still dizzy. and i'm wary of clichés about this city.
i feel dumb here, not being able to communicate. i smiled and nodded and muttered. at least in paris i can form words. and i can read signs.
i wish i brought my sound recorder. because tokyo for me is about sounds. the piped music on some streets, musical tones at train stations, traffic lights that chirp like birds, music from random trucks. then there's the jazz music where i had lunch, the mix of japanese and western pop where i had dinner. there's spruikers on microphones, clashing mayhem spilling from gamer venues, and the girly japanese pop coming from what i assume to be strip clubs.
then there's the silence on these streets. and also in trains. lots of people being quiet together, which i guess makes it a bit easier to be mute. i love that you're not allowed to speak on your phone on the trains. and better still, phones must be put on silent. i see people talking on phones in the street, but i never hear them ring. it's lovely.
there's a cute boy lying in the bed below me. a european, but he never speaks, so i can't tell where he's from. his awkwardness makes him more cute. today we showered in the same room, with a couple of curtains separating our naked bodies. maybe he will talk tomorrow.
tomorrow i'll search for a vegetarian restaurant. the internet says there are many, but i saw none. and i spent too much of the day smelling and seeing food that i can't eat, then searching for what i can. as food is my main source of comfort, this made me somewhat anxious.
i'm lying atop a bunk bed which is my bed for these five days. people are chatting in the common area (canadians, i think) and i've opted for a quieter spot. especially after my day. not that i spoke to anyone. but i absorbed a lot. and i can't really give words to it because i'm still dizzy. and i'm wary of clichés about this city.
i feel dumb here, not being able to communicate. i smiled and nodded and muttered. at least in paris i can form words. and i can read signs.
i wish i brought my sound recorder. because tokyo for me is about sounds. the piped music on some streets, musical tones at train stations, traffic lights that chirp like birds, music from random trucks. then there's the jazz music where i had lunch, the mix of japanese and western pop where i had dinner. there's spruikers on microphones, clashing mayhem spilling from gamer venues, and the girly japanese pop coming from what i assume to be strip clubs.
then there's the silence on these streets. and also in trains. lots of people being quiet together, which i guess makes it a bit easier to be mute. i love that you're not allowed to speak on your phone on the trains. and better still, phones must be put on silent. i see people talking on phones in the street, but i never hear them ring. it's lovely.
there's a cute boy lying in the bed below me. a european, but he never speaks, so i can't tell where he's from. his awkwardness makes him more cute. today we showered in the same room, with a couple of curtains separating our naked bodies. maybe he will talk tomorrow.
tomorrow i'll search for a vegetarian restaurant. the internet says there are many, but i saw none. and i spent too much of the day smelling and seeing food that i can't eat, then searching for what i can. as food is my main source of comfort, this made me somewhat anxious.
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