Bomb

By the start of the Usual Suspects' party on Saturday night, G-the-M had sent a text apologising for his -lame- joke, and saying he wouldn't be able to make to the party in the end. But see you when I get back, I hope.
Whatever.
Stella texted me too to say she couldn't make it either because not in the country.
Fair enough. It meant much less trouble for me! Especially since I decided it was not worth mentionning the affair with G-the-M to her.

God, the party was fun! No fresh meet, but I didn't feel like a carnivore either.
I was high on redbull to keep me alive after the journey, and it was good to catch up with -almost- everyone. I remain slightly concerned about the fact that the old lunatic pub landlord spent most of the night trying to pimp me up with various newcomers in the neighbourhood though...
I really hope he doesn't think of my weekly drinking sessions in his pub with the Housemates Gay-Mike and Slightly-Retarded-But-Adorable-John as sad. It certainly doesn't feel like it.
On the other hand, it would have been a bit problematic to explain to him that his pub is too dodgy for me to venture in it with any sort of potential sexual partner.

I spent the whole Sunday in bed, catching up on some much needed sleep, and only got up to wach Peep Show with the dozen of remaining survivors from the night before. (I love The House!)

And then, at 9pm, the phone rang.

I stared at the German number on the screen with an open mouth as my brain was working fast. German number=Arrogant German. Pretty simple, really.

Pick up or not pick up? That was the question. Of course I picked up. Of course it was him.

God it was so good to hear his voice. Good doesn' t even start to cover it. And God, I was pissed off he decided to get back in touch. Pissed off doesn't even start to cover it.

We chatted for a good hour, at the end of which he dropped another bomb in the conversation. Clearly, he's such a bomb specialist that he'd have no trouble finding work for Al Queda. Here's that specific bomb's components: He's coming to visit in London in September for three or four days. He didn't even ask if it was ok with me, he's coming, and that's all there is to it.

My feelings now are a mix of extreme fulfillness and anger. I'm too happy for words, but what the fuck happened to the not keeping in touch part? And he's coming to visit, and then what? We'll have to part again. Of course.

So, what's the fucking point? If only I could errase that stupid smile from my face...

Last days

I spent my last few days in Florence going to school (I am now the proud owner of an Italian diploma recognised by the Italian ministry of education!), visiting around (as you do), and going out at night and talking about life and philosophy and sex with Mexicana and Austrian Goth. Most interesting.

Mostly, Italian guys were at the center of our conversations. My main problem with them is that they tend to be metrosexuals on the edge of gay looking (everyone knows I'm generalising here, ok?), but at the same time incredible machist dickheads. Seriously, what do they think they're going to get from standing at street corners and shouting at everything wearing a skirt: Ciao! Bella! Bellissima! Ho detto ciao!
I've never seen that technique succeeding. Never. So why do they keep doing it?
And it would be fine if it had happened once or twice, but twenty times a day, seriously?
By the third week, Austrian Goth and I had set up a routine which consisted in kneeling in front of the Italian offencer in a prayer mimic and telling him in his language: Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for telling me I'm beautiful. I feel so flattered to be worth of your attention. You really made my day, thank you!
Fat chance, mainly, they didn't get sarcasm. And my knees are still bruised. But we still got a few good laughs from their puzzled faces.


That last week was good. But, truth to be told, it felt a bit weird being there without Arrogant German. I forbid myself to think about it too much and G-the-M's outing sort of kept my mind busy.

By the end of my stay, I couldn't wait to be back in London. We spent our last Friday night at an outside bar next to the river and said our goodbyes after a few hours of dancing.
Good luck with your life and take care. Maybe we'll see eachother in a few decades.

This is not helping to keep my cynicism levels relatively low. Each time, something was screaming in my head: people come and people go, and what's the fucking point of everything with them in between?
Enough.

I came back to my Florence flat, packed, and headed to the aiport way before the sun rose on Saturday morning.
The journey back to London was a nightmare. Bus delays, train delays, flight delays. You name it. Even in Stansted the suitcases were delayed and the passengers had to wait for them a good hour and a half after we landed.

But exhaustion, annoyance, irritation, nostalgy, and all those unpleasant feelings flew away as soon as I set foot in London. Home. Sweet polluted home! It felt so fucking good...

Karma

Allora, yes, Monday night was epic.
I was around at Austrian Goth's flat, getting ready to go out, when I got a facebook message from G-the-M:

"I am out and proud. Sorry girl, I am just drunk at home being honest about my sexuality for once"

My first though was something like what the frigging fuck?
I didn't gratify it with any kind of answer. If it was a joke, then it was NOT funny (but makes the probable drama of this coming Saturday's party less erm, dramatic), if it was not a joke, then, what can I say?
I just know for a fact that at least he's not as gay as my housemate Mike for example, who is erm, unable to lift it with girls. This didn't seem to be a problem with G-the-M.

Sure, a few days later I am now able to look at it in a more rational way, but truth to be told, I became nuts the moment I got the message, and dragged Austrian Goth out immediately in order to get truly and wonderfully plastered.

Of course, three beers and a shot of sambuca in, as I was cursing out loud in every possible language my eternal lack of luck, an Italian pidgeon decided it was the appropriate moment to take a shit. All over me.

Now, try to go and wash your hair in the disgusting toilet sink of a dodgy Italian bar. So much fun.
After such an experience, I could only go back to the bar and tell my life story to the cute bartender who from then on kept the -free- drinks coming.

I'm not sure what happened next. I vaguely recall smoking pot with Austrian Goth and Cute Bartender after he finished his shift. Then?
I'm not sure. I must have walked home somehow.
One thing is sure, both Austrian Goth and I were still pissed in class on Tuesday morning. Mamma Mia!

There's only one conclusion to that story; I must have been very mean to pidgeons in a past life.

If, after a whole day holding my head in two hands at school because of the Hungover of the Century (yes, him again!), I was feeling a bit better, I'd have a lot to tell about last night, but right now the only words I am capable to put together are:

I. need. my. bed. Ho bisogno del mio letto. Ciao

After a wander in the ruins of Fiesole, I climbed further up the hill all the way to the convent of San Francesco. From there, whole Firenze was spreading itself in the valley down below, for my eyes only, it seemed, because for once, I was the only visitor around. How nice.

I then took the bus back to the city center, paid the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo a visit, before meeting up with Spanish Geek at the Signoria's square to say our goodbyes.
Sharing loads of people you're never going to see again is becoming a tad exhausting, but she left on the promise she'd come and visit in London. We'll see.

The plan for Saturday night was to go for a good dancing session at that club Arrogant German and I were supposed to go to.
It didn't happen due to a certain lack of enthusiasm from the creek; Austrian Goth had her period, Mexicana had blisters from wearing high heels.
Another reason to miss the Usual Suspects. All of them being males, I know for a fact they would never come up with that kind of excuses not to go out.

But, as it was my last Saturday night in Florence, I took myself out nevertheless, and spent the night getting hammered with three Italian guys I met in an outside bar next to the river. The only problem was, they were already out of their faces when I met them and I ended up ditching them and going home when they started to take their clothes off...
...to dive in the very-green-and-very-muddy Arno. Ewrg.
I just hope I won't read stories of drowned bodies found in the river in the newspapers tomorrow at school.


This morning, I was woken up really early by loads of people screaming outside my window.
After verification, it was "just" a dozen of old half-deaf Italians waiting to go to the mass together, at the bus stop across the road. Oh Dio mio!

I decided to make the most of the day, had enough coffee to wake up the whole Medici dynasty from the the deads and went visiting "a bit".
A bit, well, that included the Piazza San Marco, the Santissima Annunziata church, the church of Santa Croce with its museum and MichelAngelo's tumb, the Palazzo Medici-Riccardi, some long but good bargaining on leather bags at the market of San Lorenzo, and the visit of the Cappelle Medicee which made even more of an impression on little-sensitive-me than it did when I first came five years ago.

I've always reacted very strongly to art in all its classical forms (paintings, sculptures, and music), especially to Renaissance masterpieces, but this time, I had to sit down for a good fifteen minutes before being able to breathe properly again.
I am not goin to descirbe what I saw, there's no words. You should go and see by yourself.
Let's just say that, to me, Michelangelo will stay one of the greatest men who ever lived.

I was supposed to go straight after my visits to Austrian Goth and Mexicana's flat for beers and gossip, but a break in the air-conditionned internet cafe seemed like a good idea.

Tomorrow, new start of the week at the school. I wonder what the new people will be like.
As long as I don't end up paired with a hysterical Polish priest like last week, everything should be fine.

Fiesole

Saturday 16th of August, 12:25, Fiesole

Note to self about Thursday night: Never walk in an internet cafe again with three very strong Mai Tais in your bloodstream...
It is true I was sad, still am a little bit, but I'm confident I'll survive.


I am now sat in the shadow of an olive tree on the Etruscan archeologic site of Fiesole, that small village overhanging Florence, where at last I found a bit of peace and quiet.
It is true I'm having a great time in between the classes, the infinite amount of Renaissance art available (the Galleria Palatina and the Uffici on their own are worth the journey from London) and the nights out spent drinking and talking international bullshit with Mexicana, Austrian Goth, Spanish geek, and usually a handful of Italian guys found on the streets, but I find it hard to cope with the hordes of tourists, and was starting to suffocate due to a lack of me-time.

Here, it's perfect. It's just me, the ruins, and the Toscan hills.
And my inner Japanes feels more than contented with all the photographic opportunities.

I know I shouldn't be complaining, but the truth is, I am starting to miss London a little bit. Especially the Usual Suspects, and the endless possibilities when it comes to meeting new people and discovering new places.
Florence is a bit too small for me I think, and I hate feeling like a sheep and having to follow the groups of sweaty American tourists in the queue to famous monuments. The problem is, I would never be able to sleep again if I didn't visit as many of those as humanly possible during my stay.
This, and I could kill for a breath of air under 30 degrees.

Londonners, be aware, I'm coming back in a week!

Little sad moment

Often, I say:
People come in your life then they go. Then new people will come and they will go too. One can never get used to it, but one has to accept it.
Because sometimes nothing can be done about it.

It is all so true. Especially when, like me, you have a nomad lifestyle.
And yet there I am, crying in the far corner of the internet cafe, hiding in between the hard disks and the earphones, Placebo at full blast.

Arrogant German left and maybe it's something else inconsciously coming up at the same occasion, but I feel crushed.


No. No. Before you ask, NO. Nothing happened.
Nothing, or everything. What can I say, I've spent the best part of two weeks, day and night, with someone whose sole presence made me, wholly, entirely, unconditionally happy.

Infatuated? Of course.
Call me the biggest drama queen in Italy.
Call me stupid.
But we had the wow-effect connexion.

He was not fuck buddy material. And his studying in Germany made him no boyfriend material either.

We discussed it after one too many cocktails and agreed any "happening" of any sort would only make things harder when parting.
We also agreed not to keep in touch.
The faster you forget, the better, right?

So far the first few hours have been terrible. I just wish I could cuddle up on my London futon with a blanket and a big joint. I want to be alone.

I'm going for a walk around the deserted streets of Florence.

Florentine Friday night

Saturday, 9th of August, 3pm

I woke up half an hour ago, as dehydrated as if I had been running across the Sahara.
Two liters of Italian coffee and a cold shower later, I am still trying to work out exactly what's going on.

Yesterday, after class and the visit of the Capella dei Medici, I went to the Germans/Austrians' flat in central Florence for Trinks.

Of course, Arrogant German was there, and the two of us spent hours on end arguing about international politics in Italienglish. Clearly, the boy has brains.
And there's no better foreplay for me than a witty challenging conversation.
Add to this a deep voice and a perfect body, and I am smitten.
I was smitten.

When the temperature eventually went under 30 degrees, the seven of us grabbed a handful of Heineken and went to sit down on the benches of the Piazza Santa Croce.
I wish I could do that more often in London; sit outside with a drink and a couple of fags without shivering after three minutes, but, from what I heard from the Usual Suspects, it is not bound to happen anytime soon in (now cold and rainy) London.
That is, unless there is some serious acceleration in the global warming process. I can't wait.

Heinekens downed, we decided to follow the young dressed-up crowd to a so-called "club" close by.
God. It was terrific. And not in a good way; stupidly trashed Amrican tourists profusely sweating on five years old commercial music.
Little precision at the risk of sounding like a pure snob: I am NOT a tourist, but would rather call myself a traveller, and I'd much prefer hand in local places with locals than having to bear the
"OHMYGOD! And then, Brandon pulled his pants down in the middle of the street, and ohmygod we were all so stoned after that joint and it was soooooo funny!
-Oh my actual God! I can't believe it! It must have been amaaaaazing!"
type of conversation in the smoking area.

After five minutes of this, I was seriously considering suicide. So was the rest of the rest the -mainly geeky- group.
Even after filling our stomachs up with Sambuca in a failed attempt to get in the mood. One after the other, everyone made his way home, leaving only Arrogant German and I, clearly still there because of eachother.
So much for playing it cool.

I eventually shared my desperation with the bouncer who sent us to that other club across town. Florentine night public transports being unreliable at the best, virtually inexistant at the worst, the two of us started that forty minutes long walk along the Arno river.
Maybe it was the undeniable romanticism of the situation, but something switched in Arrogant German, and he went into full courtship mode, insisting in offering his arm for the whole way, and helping me whenever we had to triumph over a couple of steps.
I have to admit I found it embarrasingly nice.

We arrived at the club at three, only to be told it would be closing at four. We agreed not to pay the thriteen euros for such a short time, and spent the remaining hour salsa dancing on the car park.

Bring on the cheesiness! Hmm... I loved it!
By this point I was dying for him to push me against the wall and take me there and then.
Maybe i'm not such a lady after all.
Oh wait, I think I knew that already.

Unfortuanately, the dancing stayed what it was, only dancing.
At four, he offered his arm again and we started the long way back.
Half way, in between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte alle Grazie, we sat on the low wall, feet hanging above the water, and resumed the our conversation about European cultural differences (pure hotness if you ask me!) before moving to more personal subjects.

That's when he dropped the bomb:
"You know I'm only twenty and...
-WHAT? Erm, I mean, I thought you were older but who cares anyway!"

Me and my big, huge, enourmous, woolly mammoth sized mouth.
On the other end you couldn't blame my surprise; he doesn't look a day younger than twenty five, and certainly doesn't behave like a piss-head teenager.
I guess it wouldn't have mattered if my reaction had beem a bit more, erm, suttle.

But my inability to shut the fuck up probably discouraged him, and, even if we stayed there talking until seven, long after the sun rose, absolutely nothing more than hands holding happened.

Maybe I am just a seriously retarded romantic, but I am very curious to see what Monday morning will have in store for us.

Situation

Shit-shit-shit-shit.
Me and my propensity to get myself in the most awkward situations!

Explanation:
On the day of my return to London, the Housemates and I are throwing one of our legendary parties. This time is meant to be so big that, in an attempt to salvage The House, we actually rented our local pub next door, with Dj etc.
So far so good.

The first problem is, it is going to be the first day I'll have the opportunity to see Stella since the whole G-the-M thinggy. I am still pondering weather or not she should be informed of what happened between G-the-M and me. Since I've been totally unable to make up my mind, I've asked around for advice but the diversity of the answers was such that it left me even more confused if possible.

The second, and bigger, problem is that, probably in a moment of high intoxication, I invited G-the-M too. And he very kindly sent me a message today to confirm his presence.

So there we'll be in two weeks time, three "friends" for a big "friendly" catch up!
I might need to bring boxing gloves, you never know.

Why do I keep doing that to myself, seriously, WHY?
Anyone out there can offer any kind of advice?

Some more travelling

As I am now abroad, I'll try to update this whenever possible. Chances are it will be copied from rushed notes, hence a bit erratic in the dates.


Sunday 3rd of August, 3:32 am

I am now on the coach to Stansted (sounds vaguely familiar, in fact, so familiar that once in the terminal, I'll be able to go straight to the toilets with my eyes closed).
On the coach, miraculously enough, since I am not quite sure how I got here in the first place.

Friday night was every bit as fun as I thought it would be; major piss up with the Usual Suspects around the pubs of Liverpool Street, followed by six hours of hardcore up and down jumping on DJ Fresh at fabric.
I went to bed at 8 on Saturday morning (don't you love taking the tube in the wee hours with six junkies in your carriage to keep you entertained, and a couple of liters of vomit splattered on the floor to remind you that at least your sense of smell is still intact?) and woke up at 2pm, quite confused.

I packed, coloured my hair, made bloody marys with the Housemates, and drank them on the balcony, enjoying the rare warm evening.
The original plan was trying to stay awake until 3 by watching baby kangaroos on youtube, or anything equally random. The thing with bloody marys, is that they always get me inspired.
I knocked at Italian Neighbour's door, and 20 minutes later, we were downing sambucas at the Notting Hill Arts Club. Funk night, yes please!
We danced with what we thought were two gay guys.
It looks like I'll have to revise my claim to fineliest tuned gaydar in London since they actually became way too interested for gay people.

They were fun nethertheless. In any case, we both had true excuses for once; her regular shag-buddy was coming to pick her up, and I had to go to the airport.

Drunkennes was in the air by 2am when we left the club, but I still managed to make it home, swap high heels for comfy shoes, and finish the stach of weed hanging in my room ( since I knew that, with the "people traffic" in The House, it so wouldn't remain there, unsmoked for a whole three weeks.

Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but obviously it wasn't since next thing I knew, I had lost - yes lost!- the coach stop in Marble Arch, and spent a whole forty minutes looking for it up and down oxford Street with a suitcase twice my size. Hmm...



2:05pm, some Italian train, local time

The staf in Stansted decided I looked very much like a terrorist and took a very long fifteen minutes to empty my handbag in full view of everyone, handbag which, incidentally, had just been stuffed with random things from my overweight suitcase at the check-in desk. By random things, I mean all my lacy underwear which has been making so many public appearances recently it needs an agent.



My destination was Florence, where I will be starting a three weeks course tomorrow, but (oh, the joys of flying Ryanair!) I landed close to Pisa and decided to stop there for a few hours to see the famous slanting tower.
It is still there. Well, if it wasn't, you would have heard about it I guess.



Thursday 7th of August 7:30pm, Firenze

So, I am well settled down in Florence. My flat is a bit, erm, sweaty (Florence, because of its geographic situation, is supposedly the hottest city in Italy and I am on the fith floor with a massive window facing South) but very cosy. Not that I've spent more than the strictly necesary time to sleep there so far.

I share it with a Japanese piano teacher with whom communication is virtually impossible, so we smile at eachother whenever we're in the same room.
Fortunately, people on the course are way more fun.

There's the Mexican girl who with I get on like fire. She was supposed to go back to Mexico about a month ago but decided to stay a bit longer because the guy from the internet cafe she's sleeping with happens to have -her words, not mine- the biggest one in the world. No, you don't need more details.

There is the Spanish Geek who doesn't drink but shares my passions for Michel Angelo, Rafael, Puccini and tall Italian guys.

There is the Austrian girl who always wears funky tights and must be dying in the heat but loves as much as I do the live music scene.

There is the pure Hungarian Hunk who unfortunately doesn't speak anything but Hungarian. Actually, who cares, every girl on the course, teachers included is actually much more interested in his potential body language.

And there's also the very arrogant German student whom I can't help but provoke. Damn, I love arrogant guys way too much for my own good.
And I know for a fact that they love being provoked. I'm telling you, it works everytime.
Actually, I've already been asked for a drink tomorrow after the classes.
I said I wasn't sure. Which is true. He's attractive enough, but... Well, I don't know. But there's plenty of time to decide.

Well, sort of, especially since my timetable has been pretty busy since Monday; classes from 9am to 4pm, usually followed by a visit either with Mexicana, Austrian Tights and Spanish Geek, either on my own.
So far, culture wise, I've walked through the beautiful residential area on the hills, the South of the Arno and the Boboli Gardens, visited the Academia museum, the Uffici Gallery and the Museo Nazionale, until 10pm, closing time.
Each time it was followed by dinner/drinks with a small roup of students or a few randoms Mexicana and I met on the street.

No, I don't have time to sleep, but I am fucking loving this!
Actually, I have to go, I'm going for drinks in fifteen minutes. I'll raise my glass to Michel Angelo!

Text

Hello my lovely one!
It was so good to see you last week...
I'm in [...] until next Thursday. Will you be around?
If not, I would like to take you out for drinks next week on my return and maybe we can start again!?!
kinda miss you...
xxxxxx

Of course it comes from OG. Seriously, who else?

Thank God I spent last night stone-talking to another of the Schmokin Creek's (sexy) guests until 5am. Meaning I'm too dazed and confused right now to formulate an appropriate answer.

Thank God I won't be "around", neither in London next week. Because I know I would have jumped on the opportunity, quite literally.
Bugger. I should stop caring since it is NOT. HAPPENING. Apart from the fact that we're never in the same country, just for health and safety reasons.


I need to get my brain back together instead, do some packing, get ready, meet the Usual Suspects for drinks, and go to Fabric with Sexy Guest.
Sounds like a good plan.