25 and 2 weeks

My birthday passed exactly two weeks ago and yet it still lingers, thanks to Royal Mail and Latin timing. I'm not used to receiving presents or people fussing over me. It's an interesting feeling. Actually, it's an amazing feeling to have people do something, simply because you exist. I can only reiterate that 25 was and still is a good birthday. A book of poems from Wonderwoman, a bottle of my favourite wine (Gigondas) from Neel, my very first graphic novel (Frank Miller's '300') from Theo, an evening at Bad Blumau from Mel, an evening at the Sanctuary from Raquel, Andre, and Lei, a care package that included two perfect Argentine alfajores from Andean, and the elusive t-shirt I had been searching for from Celeste (the 'Fuck y'all I'm from Texas' one). The distance has already worn thin the blood relations, yet this new family does me fine. At least once a day I wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing, if London and this job is worth the sweat and tears. And then something happens, a text, an email, a gift, a hug, a proffered drink, and I remember how loved I am, how lucky I am.

tight hips...sink ships?

The past two weekends have been more than anyone could have asked. After a 4-day weekend for Easter and possibly the best birthday I have ever had (a simple evening of drinks, chat, and random hookups;) I reunited with Mel in Graz.

It was a weekend of firsts - first time in Austria, first time driving in a foreign country, first time at a thermal bath, first time naked in front of more than one person at a time... We drove through the Styrian wine country, slightly perturbed/amused at what seemed to be endless hills of graves and spent an evening at Bad Blumau, a funky spa designed by Hundertwasser, after a day of ambling around Graz, soaking up the sun and searching for the tastiest kebab in town. I think we were both dazed most of the time, partly by our illnesses, the gorgeous weather, and the blissful calm of the spa therapies. I emerged from the spa and this weekend feeling whole - the first time in a month that my body (and to a certain extent, my soul) didn't feel broken. And while much of that had to do with getting off this island, the company deserves much thanks.

They say tight hips symbolise resistance to change. I hope some day I have hips as flexible as hers.

finding a middle ground

Life don't stop swinging. Saw so many faces this weekend, this weekend, in this place where 48 hours feels like a lifetime. Friday I decided it was time to move out of the Spitalfields flat, somewhere nicer, somewhere greener, somewhere I don't have to worry about little shits throwing things at me.

Spent Friday evening chatting with Matt before he headed off to China the following morning, watched Lost in Translation the 2nd time around, definitely much better the second time around. I want to go to Japan. Not to the cities. OK, well, to the cities for a bit then to the rural nowhere, to be a stranger in a strange land.

Saturday morning I wandered around North London, up to Highbury near Clissold Park and later down to Essex road, beautiful flats, but nothing to call home. Met up with Raj, who I hadn't seen in months, and indulged in these amazing, massive bocadillos from a Cuban restaurant. His ordeal reminded me of how unforgiving this city can be, but seeing a familiar face after so long was lovely.

So then, I trekked down to Finsbury, not a place I was considering living in, and fell in love with a flat that a friend of a friend was offering up. Huge bedroom (even by American standards), big flat, tons of windows, facing west and east so flooded with light, a communal garden. I was sold. And an awesome flatmate to boot, a crazy, sincere Greek girl with an accent to die for. Now we're plotting to find a fit male who isn't Greek or American and isn't an architect, designer or banker for the 3rd room.

Then it was off to Brixton for Matina's party - of course, I managed to snag a ride with a sweet Croatian boy who beat the system and listened to Gotan project and saw London from the front seat of a car for the first time in perhaps a year. Yes, this place has its moments. Sometimes.

The party began slowly enough and became something rather insane. You could hardly move for all the people but jumping around with what I could confidently call a solid group of friends in this place of ceaseless movement felt good. I spoke to the most random people about documenting sugar sculptures, cussing in Greek, how to cook prawns, and other sundry and the moment I was bored I somehow flitted off without an afterthought.

And then Sunday. A lie-in and then a stroll around the market, perusing the organic fruit stall, sampling marinated tofu and various olives, picking and mixing bizarre forms of fudge, falling upon 2-pound semolina cake. I totally forgot about the plans for the afternoon until Sarah called. And then I'm at my old neighbourhood, on Marylebone High Street, drinking Fraziskaner and smoking Gauloise with Guillaume. Too too funny.

to Sundays

A toast, to long days enveloped in the softness of lush duvets that crinkle under the slightest of movements, the breathy stillness of Yoshimoto's novels, and the phantasmic beats of Orbient and Massive Attack. What an unearthly departure from office life.