As a good friend of mine once said, "I can't tell you anything about chemistry, I didn't take it at school". Well, it was something like that anyway. I've been sitting here trying to figure out why I feel like I'm having a love affair with Tronts. Maybe chemistry does hold the answer. But akin to my friend, it's not much help to me because I opted for physics in the realm of science. And I'll be the first to admit, choosing any science subject was not a wise choice given that my strengths were language and social studies.
Do you remember that game that we'd play as kids, where we'd pull the petals off flowers one by one and chant, 'he loves me, he loves me not'? That's how I feel on a daily basis about this city. I feel like I'm constantly questioning the reciprocity of my relationship with Tronts.
A few weeks ago now, at the beginning of April, it was starting to get warmer. I'd shed a layer of clothing. All of the snow had disappeared and the icy residue had melted away. What was left was Spring. Or so we thought. Tronts deceived and disappointed us all that week, just like a selfish lover. She had dangled the promise of warmth in our faces and then taken it away so callously. There was a snow-storm. One as thick as any endured during the winter.
I walked around in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt today. I feel like I'm being lured into a false sense of security again. Do I trust the verdant grass? The tiny leaves sprouting on the once-barren trees branches? The tulips lining the flower beds of people's house fronts? Do I trust her?
I can't help but think the best of her. For all that she doesn't give me, she gives me back tenfold in other ways. I feel safe and secure. Comfortable and familiar. Supported and loved. But at the same time, excited and filled with possibility.
If that isn't the perfect love affair, then I don't know what is.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Zolo
Last week while I was staying overnight in New York I wrote this in my journal:
I've never dined by myself before. Another first. But I craved a good wine and something other than a burger, so here I am.
I'm in Chelsea, I think. Somewhere just off 8th Avenue, south of 14th Street. Restaurant name unknown. I just ordered a $35 bottle of wine for myself. What the fuck hey. Zolo Malbec: product of Argentina.
Awkward moment:
"Two glasses?"
"Oh no, just one"
Maybe I've got an imaginary friend that I can't see. Or maybe he just didn't realise I was Australian.
The wood-fired pizza I ordered is orgasmic, and that's not an understatement. Well maybe if my mouth was my junk it wouldn't be. Shredded beef, red pepper, caramelised onion and a bold cheese, something from the parmesan family. It might have been called mangelco or something like that. It reminded me of mangoes when I read it on the menu.
It's kind of hard sitting here all alone with my thoughts. But the wine is certainly helping. It makes for quite the opportunity to eavesdrop and people-watch. There are two girls a few tables down. Either they're breaking up or someone has just died. Not a happy vibe coming from over there.
I'm on to my third, albeit generous, glass of wine and have eaten seven of the eight slices of pizza. I can really put it away. Having a big brother that steals potatoes off your plate spurs you on to be a quick eater. Consequently, I've usually eaten everything in front of me before I realise I'm over-full and resemble the gluttonous Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka.
The melancholy lesbians are scratching their heads as if to find a solution to their problem but it appears to be unsolveable. They look at each other despondently.
All of a sudden I miss my family and friends. I miss familiarity, but at the same time I crave this aloneness. Just like I craved this wine that has made me drunk-ish.
I've never dined by myself before. Another first. But I craved a good wine and something other than a burger, so here I am.
I'm in Chelsea, I think. Somewhere just off 8th Avenue, south of 14th Street. Restaurant name unknown. I just ordered a $35 bottle of wine for myself. What the fuck hey. Zolo Malbec: product of Argentina.
Awkward moment:
"Two glasses?"
"Oh no, just one"
Maybe I've got an imaginary friend that I can't see. Or maybe he just didn't realise I was Australian.
The wood-fired pizza I ordered is orgasmic, and that's not an understatement. Well maybe if my mouth was my junk it wouldn't be. Shredded beef, red pepper, caramelised onion and a bold cheese, something from the parmesan family. It might have been called mangelco or something like that. It reminded me of mangoes when I read it on the menu.
It's kind of hard sitting here all alone with my thoughts. But the wine is certainly helping. It makes for quite the opportunity to eavesdrop and people-watch. There are two girls a few tables down. Either they're breaking up or someone has just died. Not a happy vibe coming from over there.
I'm on to my third, albeit generous, glass of wine and have eaten seven of the eight slices of pizza. I can really put it away. Having a big brother that steals potatoes off your plate spurs you on to be a quick eater. Consequently, I've usually eaten everything in front of me before I realise I'm over-full and resemble the gluttonous Augustus Gloop from Willy Wonka.
The melancholy lesbians are scratching their heads as if to find a solution to their problem but it appears to be unsolveable. They look at each other despondently.
All of a sudden I miss my family and friends. I miss familiarity, but at the same time I crave this aloneness. Just like I craved this wine that has made me drunk-ish.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Ice Pick
All of us have basic instincts. Instincts not quite as carnal or homicidal as Sharon Stone, but basic all the same. As I walk out of Chicago's Union Station on to Adams Street, I have no map, no wi-fi, no clue where I am, or how to get where I need to be. It is a weird feeling to be so unfamiliar with my surroundings, again.
I walk across a bridge and head in the direction that a sign suggests is 'downtown'. Perchance, I look across the bed of water that I'm crossing and see that the street parallel is the street that my hotel is meant to be on. I'm there within ten minutes.
Winning!
I walk across a bridge and head in the direction that a sign suggests is 'downtown'. Perchance, I look across the bed of water that I'm crossing and see that the street parallel is the street that my hotel is meant to be on. I'm there within ten minutes.
Winning!
Holy Toledo!
Bryan was founded in 1840. A sign imparts this knowledge to me, as the Amtrak continues to ebb and weave through the United States on its journey towards the 'Windy City'. I'm in Ohio now. Toledo. Wauseon. And Bryan.
It kind of feels familiar even though I've never been here before. It must be all of those years of American television absorption. I could be on the set of Smallville riding in a red pickup truck with Lana Lang, or battling a bald-headed villain in the seemingly endless maze of maize. Or I could be strapped to a water pipe in a barn with Helen Hunt (I wish) waiting for a twister to pass on through. Unfortunately, Bill Paxton had this honour. Now he is a Mormon bigamist. He has all the luck with the ladies.
So this is how it looks, for as far as my eyes can see.
Barns. Heavy vehicles. Silos. Toiled earth. Tractors and other farm machinery. Trees. Farm houses. And 'Titan' sheds so big that they would make any Australian bloke jealous.
It kind of feels familiar even though I've never been here before. It must be all of those years of American television absorption. I could be on the set of Smallville riding in a red pickup truck with Lana Lang, or battling a bald-headed villain in the seemingly endless maze of maize. Or I could be strapped to a water pipe in a barn with Helen Hunt (I wish) waiting for a twister to pass on through. Unfortunately, Bill Paxton had this honour. Now he is a Mormon bigamist. He has all the luck with the ladies.
So this is how it looks, for as far as my eyes can see.
Barns. Heavy vehicles. Silos. Toiled earth. Tractors and other farm machinery. Trees. Farm houses. And 'Titan' sheds so big that they would make any Australian bloke jealous.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Where in the World?
I'm on an Amtrak train travelling somewhere across the State of New York. By morning I'll be in Chicago. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how far away I am from home and it scares me. So I mentally change the topic.
When I was a kid I used to play a computer game called Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Carmen was an international thief. The loot differed based on the country where the crime took place. Your job as the detective in charge was to track Carmen's villain accomplices around the world and collect clues in an attempt to eventually capture Carmen herself. I loved that with the click of a button I could be in Buenos Aires or Moscow or Paris. I think this is where my fascination with faraway lands first began.
I've been thinking about the kind of people who travel; the kind of person I am, and the kind of people I've met along the way. I think there's a common thread.
A love of adventure. The satisfaction of rising to a challenge. An insatiable thirst for knowledge and experience. Logic and rationality clouded by optimism. A dreamer. One with a restless soul.
When I was a kid I used to play a computer game called Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Carmen was an international thief. The loot differed based on the country where the crime took place. Your job as the detective in charge was to track Carmen's villain accomplices around the world and collect clues in an attempt to eventually capture Carmen herself. I loved that with the click of a button I could be in Buenos Aires or Moscow or Paris. I think this is where my fascination with faraway lands first began.
I've been thinking about the kind of people who travel; the kind of person I am, and the kind of people I've met along the way. I think there's a common thread.
A love of adventure. The satisfaction of rising to a challenge. An insatiable thirst for knowledge and experience. Logic and rationality clouded by optimism. A dreamer. One with a restless soul.
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