The Anonymous Tramp Who Brightened My Week

I've always been a defender of the concept 'you never know when everything is about to change'. Sounds optimistic and cheerful, and in a way might be, as might be just the opposite. But philo-rant aside, for me it was always just logic. Experience backs me on this one as well, but mostly logic. We know nothing. So even when I start to feel the pangs of pessimistic smartarseness, I still try to remember that I know nothing. The future's not ours to see, qué será será, what will be, will be, etc.

At the same time, there's another Universal Truth about buses in London. In the roughly a year or so I've been a Londonder, I think I could tell some story or another about every single one of my rides. Or maybe I'm just a very bored individual who notices things when taking public transport. Stupid things, funny things, weird things, downright scary things...but today's thing tops them all. And I solemnly swear that I have embellished nothing.

Bus 155 to Clapham. I'm sitting by the window, vacant seat beside me. Tyipical tramp-drunkie-lunatic-allergictowater, with a beard that looks like it could be hosting an entire ecosystem of its own, sits by my side with a polite Good Morning, madam. I offer the shadow of a smile, start breathing through my mouth as discretely as I can, and keep on staring through the window.

"You look sad."

At first, I don't know if he's speaking to me. And second, I'm not expecting that. I look at Tramp, but say nothing. He's looking at me very intently.

"Yeah, you do. You look sad. "

I look at him for a second. "I'm not," I say a bit defensively for my taste, trying to cut the conversation and looking again through the window, but the statement out of the blue has taken me aback.

"Yes you are. I've been sad most of my life, I can tell. You are sad. Lovely ladies like you shouldn't be sad. Is it a fucking bastard, the one making you sad? You shouldn't bother, we men are shite. Some fella will be for you."

I can't help but smile.

"Maybe. But no, it's not. And really, I'm not sad."

"Someone died?"

"Not that I know of. I hope not."

"It's not a bad thing to be sad, you know. I'm always drunk. Not always, but everyday. I drink because I'm a sodding bastard, but sodding bastars can be sad too, you know."

"Sodding bastards probably have good reasons to be sad. I know."

Tramp stares at me. He looks suddenly different, sober. Almost, almost, like he's not a Trump in the bus anymore.

"I have to get off in the next one, so you will can [sic] breath with your nose again soon, madam. Whatever is making you sad, tell them to fuck the fucking hell off. Nothing matters, life's all shit. But at times you can find your way in the shit, you know. And shit changes, too. One day is one shit, the next s'another shit. And that is a good thing. And sometimes the shit is gone. Just like that, fucking gone. I like your eyes. Your eyes see things. Your shit will be gone."

I don't know about my shit, but my eyes are not seeing much at the moment. Not even blinking, I'm sure of it.

"Have a good day, madam. Been a pleasure," and he does a small bow with the head.

"Been, indeed," and I mean it. " Have a good day, you too."

Tramp quickly gets off the bus. I still breath through my mouth for a bit longer. I am almost ready to take my phone out and take a picture of him, but I don't dare to picture people in buses, and anyway he's on the opposite side, so no luck.

As I was saying, you never know when the shit is about to change.

Night night.

x

Of Books, Pubs, and Why No Person Should Exist.

It's past 3.30 am in the land of the Thames, and I find myself with some miraculous internet time in my hands. Not quite awake exactly, but the temptation to resist  is great. And I promised I would rant about something at some point, so well, killing birds in pairs isn't bad, and being half asleep on the keyboard might make it more interesting. You've been warned.

So, three weeks have passed since I set foot in London again. Three weeks already.

This time around I know the city, the buses, the atmosphere. I know where to buy French Fancies and where I'm going to find the yummiest Chicken Bakes at Gregg's. I know that I shouldn't take the tube as much as I do in order to save some pennies, and I also know which Costa is better than the others. I know my school and my teachers, a bit better than I expected to in some cases, and I also know that Henry Pordes, apparently, will always have whatever literary piece I fancy at the moment and I love them for that.

It would all be great if not for another little bit of knowledge. For I also know, with a certainty that makes me extremely uneasy, that I am exactly where I should be.

Sounds terribly poetic, doesn't it? Thankfully those of you who've known me forever are quite aware that I'm not one for embellishing things, nor have the ability to do so if inclined. It's all about facts, actually. It took me four months to accept the fact that I was back in Spain and to  stop being grumpy and downright unpleasant at the mention of lists of reasons that should make me ecstatic about coming back home.

It took me less than 24h to become a Londoner again. I might truly be the least Spanish Spaniard after all.

Was it necessary for me to come back? Maybe not. Actually, not. It wasn't necessary at all, as in, staying in Spain didn't represent a threat to my vital functions. However, technically speaking, only eating/drinking (and their reversed processes), breathing and sleeping are necessary. But that's not living, is it? That's existing. And no person should exist.

Sooo, here I am, surrounded by English books and non-done homework -or home entertainment, as my principal would say-, sadly counting the scarce weeks left until my exam. On my birthday, to be accurate.

On the bright side...ah, the bright side. I've been going out much more than I thought I would, thanks in no small part to the least expected, but fantastic and highly entertaining, pub-buddy I imagined I would find. I'm enjoying being in class again, so much that I wish I could go five days a week instead of just three. I'm taking the tube and walking back home at midnight, not completely happy about it, and with help sometimes, but still. I'm living in the most beautiful room I've ever had with an even more fantastic family than the one I had last year, and I was sure that that wasn't possible.

I know that some thinking must be done. Scary, life-altering thinking. But if you want naked honesty, it'll have to wait. Because, right now, I'm also the happiest I've been since leaving England last December, despite everything else. Maybe it's a horrible thing to say,  I'm sure it is, and I will probably  burn in some hell or another. But as Serrat beautifully put it, the truth is never sad (or evil,for that matter); it just has no remedy.

Ah, turmoil in the horizon, how I love you.

Hope you had enough rant to stop the complaining about my silence, by the way... ;)

Love and many cyberhugs,

x

PD: They day is dawning, on a London Sunday morniiing...

I Want to Be a Mushy Peanut

Current Mood Alert: sleepy...sort of. 

My brother came home today with a big box full of little thingies. From his girlfriend, of course. As I learned later, she, in turn, had gone home carrying another box full of more little things, sweets and flowers from him.

Because today it was Saint Valentine's.

Facebook is a great source of social data for persons who enjoy/learn observing how other people interact and react and behave. Like a big lab. As I am one of those annoying persons, I had a lot of intellectual fun today.

Facing Saint Valentine's, subjects start to act in different and characteristic manners.

My brother's kind constitutes the first group. Lovely Doveys. They've been preparing this day for weeks. The perfect gift, the perfect flower, the perfect card with the perfectest love message. Candles, sweets and Iloveyous x1000. It's almost as if they were mini-commercial centres waiting for all this stuff to be out.

There's a second group, the ones who, as my lovely friend Steph put it, think of this day as Singles Awareness Day. Singles around the world with different levels of bitterness about their situation and hatred against the Lovey Doveys, and who feel this day is nothing more than an evil plan of the Universe to remind them how not in love, or rather not-successfully in love, they are. They just broke up with partners, or were left behind, or cheated on. They can't fall in love as much as they try, or maybe they are in love, but must keep it secret; in love with a best friend, with a stranger, with a teacher, with someone else's love. For them, love sucks, and Saint Valentine's is just like a big slap on the their faces. Or their hearts. And in the deepest part of those very same hearts, and as grumpy as they might look, they just desperatedly wished they belonged in the first group. So they hate them even more for it.

Lastly, I think there's a third group, to which I reckon I might belong. The Peanuts. 
 

Years ago, when I was in my teens and therefore fully immersed in the Age of Mush, the sister I never had told me: "You are lovely, but you have the romanticism of a peanut." If memory serves, the trigger was some Valentine's bunch of flowers from her then love of her life, today forgotten of course. Can't remember exactly what my comment was, but I don't think it was along the lines of ''Awwww...you're so lucky, that's sooo romantic!'  as it was expected.

Twenty years later, and an hour ago to be accurate, my brother came to my room with his box. He wanted me to see the whole lot, half sincerely, half waiting to see my face and have a laugh; my lack of enthusiasm -in times of singleness and unsingleness equally- for the day or day-related thing amuses him, apparently.

The truth is, I don't like chocolates except for a couple of exceptions. I don't believe in flowers and I sneeze whenever I'm too close to a buquet. I've never liked romantic poetry, I feel uneasy whenever someone is not natural and spontaneous and instead goes for empty pre-cooked compliments, and I used to have nightmares involving love letters and flowers the eve before Saint Valentine's day in Secondary School.

Love at first sight is a concept so alien to me that once I literally had to coerce a friend of mine, who swore had felt it first hand, into dissectioning it. "You're not romantic enough to understand it," she said. 'How did B. call it? The romanticism of a peanut, wasn't it?' The nerve. Maybe Peanuts are romantic in their own way. 

I don't know every Peanut out there, of course, but I know how amazing some little non-romantic things can be.  

One of the most amazing situations I've been a part of took place on the grass, in a park, eating sunflower seeds, and talking, just talking, for about five hours straight. No sweet talking, no flirting, no references to the beauty of the moon or the dark depths of my eyes. Instead, there was the most interesting conversation going on. We talked about teaching. About grammar and how nobody cares nowadays. About World Wars. About astronomy and how I keep on confusing the same constellations over and over.  About kings and queens, religion and politics. About books. We talked a lot about books.

Of course, we talked about his girldfriend, too. A put off, undoubtedly, but not even that slightly annoying fact managed to ruin the whole experience.

There was this other time when this Peanut had to stay until late working on something and the guest starring of her thoughts skipped important stuff and meet ups to stay with her and help. He never had any interest other than that of a very close friend, and that was ok. It wasn't the first time and wasn't going to be the last one either. Maybe we Peanuts make better friends or intellectual partners than we are girl/boyfriend material. No idea. I'll have to ask.

And one of the most beautiful messages I've ever received was this masterpiece: "It was  a real pleasure to find our last night conversation turning so destructive for my selfsteem. Couldn't sleep and today I'm falling asleep all over my papers, you heartless bitch... Are you and your twisted mind available today?"  We were. Who would have resisted? It's all in the vibes, I've been telling for years.

All in all, fact is that I wouldn't trade my peanut moments for any love letter or heart-shaped ballon, chocolates box or anything. So far, of course.

But, to be completely honest, I think I secretly would like to belong to the Lovey Doveys, if only for one Saint Valentine's. Must be nice, to be excited and nervous and expecting romantic things, and then enjoying the outcome, either good or bad.

Yup. Definitely. I want to be a mushy peanut.

x

PS:

To Lovey Doveys: sometimes you are truly sickening. TRULY.Tone it down in front of Bitter Singles especially, or one day you'll regret it.


To Bitter Singles: chill out people. Lovey Doveys are not the reason you don't have a Valentine. And look at it this way: Valentine's day can always be the day you meet other Bitters to badmouth them. Shared bitterness is FUN.

To Peanuts: PEANUTS RULE. And of course you're not cold and heartless, no matter what the other bunch says. You just have a different sense of romanticism...(And for the record, you are right and NO, love at first sight doesn't exist. Lust at first sight, now that's another entire story...)

90 (a.k.a. A Life Story)

Current mood Alert: respectful

 Once upon a time, there was a young man who went off to fight in an ugly and nasty war; a war that made brothers kill brothers and women were left widows with children for no other reason than no reason. The only surviving child of his parents, they had pleaded  pleaded with him, but it was of no use. He did what every other young man his age wanted to do. 

By the time the terrible war between brothers was over, the prayers of the young man's parents had been heard, or so they thought, because he finally came back, alive, a bitter old man of twenty. For even if he had physically survived, he was far from unharmed. Part of him, the young man he was and should have been still, had died in the trenches. 

Life went on, of course, and the young bitter old man met a woman, married her, and eventually they formed a big family. And even though no one knew, he never stopped having dreams of the war, of the horror...and of the one who had been the best friend of his childhood. 

Because of their different political views, they had found themselves standing on opposite sides of the trenches. The other young man wasn't as lucky, though; he never came back from the front. 

The young bitter old man didn't tell anyone about this one certainty that plagued his dreams. He was sure, as sure as he could be, anyway (because one isn't really conscious of what's going on in the middle of the mayhem) that it had been him the one who killed his best friend. At first it was only a suspicion. A something in the pit of his stomach. Something about their positions. For many years, he tried to recall something, anything, that could make him see he was wrong. Instead, he could clearly replay their positions over and over. And the desperate feeling of shooting or being shot. Eventually, the suspicion turned into  certainty in his mind. If that was or wasn't how it all really happened, his mind didn't care.

One day, many years later, one of the old man's youngest sons died unexpectedly. Shot, at 23, by his very best friend. They were in army training and they were playing with the gun from the new equipments. The friend never thought it could be loaded. 

No one saw the man cry about it. Of course, no one could know that, for him, the tragedy had a deeper meaning. It was the ultimate confirmation of something he had been expecting all his life to be confirmed. To him, his son's tragic death was his rightful retribution, in the form of a most cruelly ironical retake, for what he had done so many years before.

Today, the old man turned ninety. His wife died a few years ago, but he still lives in the same house. His mind is crisp and clear, his body slightly behind. He doesn't like birthdays, especially his, and usually speaks of dues already paid and time off being too long for his tastes and patience.   

As much as I try, I can't even start to imagine half of what he has lived and seen. What it is like to have seen most of your friends go, one by one. Your parents. Your wife. Your son. Your independence. Your old soldier pride (although he doesn't lack on that one, genio y figura...)

I know that anyday he will get his wish and we will get an unwelcomed and sad phone call. But, as he says, he's paid his dues. He's calm and ready, and, if no less bitter, quite the contrary actually, at least more accepting. And so we should.

Even if he's not, I'm happy for him getting this far. 

Happy birthday. 

x

Grades, Plans, and Mafalda's Pebble

Current Mood Alert: pensive

Not a very Junctionish entry tonight, just the little bit about the grade, perhaps. 

I know my result already. In truth, I haven't seen it, as in with my own eyes, because the damned password is still missing in combat and the Cambridge website wasn't easy to trick into letting me in without it. Hmm. 

My knowledge came, very appropriately, from my teacher, who was nice enough to inform me of my A. An A! Who* would have thought! (-->*aformentioned teacher, principal, more teachers, classmates, ELTmates, friends, my London family, my real family, a couple of strangers in shops, a guard in an Oxford college).

I will have to get in touch with the Cambridge gang soon, though, as I still haven't heard word from them. It would be lovely to have the actual certificate sent to me after the long, long process. Although, right now, I wouldn't say no to picking it in person, or to urgently travel to London to have the matter solved. Oh, the Pull, you heartless bitch.

In other unrelated and still uninteresting news, I am going to purposely not-comment about something I'm planning. It's the third attempt at it, all the previous ones failing miserably. No idea why. Maybe it's just a cosmic warning that I refuse to acknowledge, but I'm nothing if not determined, so I'm crossing fingers, toes, and every other crossable part. Wish me luck.

And because it's very late and I love it, I've been re-reading some old Mafalda strips. Quino might be held accountable -along with genetics- for my sometimes sarcastic ways, but also for years of lovely readings and entertaining deep thoughts.

This one is one of my favourites (click to enlarge).

 How can anyone believe that Mafalda is for kids is beyond me.

Cheers!

The Eve Before

Current Mood Alert: bored, therefore, chatty

So, it's the eve before the results of my CAE exam are finally published. This fact alone shouldn't be interesting enough to deserve an entry, but seeing that I did the first exam on the 1st of December, and tomorrow will be 25th of January, it feels a bit like going into labour. Actually I had started to believe that the whole point of CAE was just taking the exams, and nothing else, because when someone asked me about the results, my reaction was along te lines of 'what results? I took the exam already.'

I don't think I told anything about my exams, did I? I never do. Ok, I talked about it with my teacher and then a little something with some classmates, but that was it. From Primary to Uni, I've actively avoided the typical chitchat post-exam, with everyone talking about their results and desperately looking for reassurance. There's nothing I can do once the exam is over, so no point in agonising over how different their answers are from mine . "Yeah, because you know you are brilliant and did well, you're not nervous", classmates used to tell me. Nop. It wasn't that. Ok, the fact that I was usually good helped a bit, I suppose. But even when knew I could have done well, I tried not to hear what they were saying about answers. My brain is a very fertile land, so let's avoid trouble.

To the point. My first exam was, as I was saying, on 1st December. The Speaking Paper. I was the only one taking the exam from my evening class, which meant that our lessons weren't exactly exam-orientated. So I tried to work extra hours, and went through almost the whole book on my own. Will, my teacher, was nice enough to say yes to some extra time for me, too, and even if I could have used a bit of practice in speaking, for example, I didn't want to abuse. Abuse more than it was necessary, anyway.

So, on the afternoon of the exam, I googled the address, in Wimbledon, and there I went, -3ºC and all at 5pm. And nervous as hell, saying 'hello' and 'good afternoon' to myself while walking down the street, and thinking that I had lost the little accent I had mastered in months. What can I say, I'm annoying that way.

I found the place -yay- and then I was paired up with a lovely girl from my same school. Actually, five minutes later we were merrily chatting, sharing tips and devising plans for the in-pairs parts.It went well...sort of. I mean, I did well but I failed at the one I knew I was going to fail. And that ruined it for me, because I know I wasn't good.

For the written one, a week later, I met them again, and there we went. Seven in the morning, freezing, and with volcanic magma disguised as coffee searing tongue. The not so cool part was that I was feeling like a rag: 38º of temperature, constant and annoying cough, chills...and deaf as a log, so imagine the Listening part, in a huge room, sound distorted. But I'm nothing if not a challenge-lover, so it wasn't that bad.

Highlights of that day:

- Elderly Woman from Cambridge Uni looking stern and scary and miserable. At one point, I was two fits of cough away from throwing my trachea against the desk, but when I was going to raise my hand, EW reminded us that we were not permitted to use pens, just pencils, in such a stern and angry way that I decided that, whatever the fate of my trachea, I was better off staying where I was.

-Young alternative man having the guts of risking his continuity in the exam, and in life, by making Elderly Woman and her crew wait for ten minutes.

- Wearing my coat while doing the exam.

-Eating Halls Soothers while doing the exams. Every hour (I left my ASDA honey at home in case it wasn't allowed). 

- Banquet with lovely Christine, Lenne, Albane and Julie during the break.

- Bumping of head against toilet wall due to a mixture of genetic lack of balance, lack of proper sleep and drowsiness (aka The Nebula).

- Bumping of head against fellow student while trying to pick my bloody pen and ID from floor (really, I don't know why all my things end up in the floor).

- And this beautiful view (ten times more so in real life):

Sacred Heart Church, Wimbledon.

Ahh, the good old times.

So, while I'm not overly confident, I think I might have passed. The point, however, was not to pass, but how I passed. And I suspect that it wasn't as brilliantly as I wanted.

Or, I might be wrong.  Questions, questions. 

Of Scottish Churches, CRs and Palpatines

Current Mood Alert: disturbingly amused

Do you remember, little friends, of that time that I had a bizarre dream about a church, Cristiano Ronaldo and Palpatine*? (*link for the sacrilegious).

As I guess the answer is 'mm...nope', since not even I did until last night, here I am to tell you that yup, I had a slightly disturbing dream, back in May, when I had just arrived in London.

The thing is that last night I contemplated, astonished, the development of a kind of second episode of that very same dream. 


I find myself in the exact same place I was last time, all dressed up and nice and alone, sitting in the same old church, church that is ancient and huge and lovely. This time, the church is presented in more detail: it's in Scotland, castle-like. Sort of like this one:

This is Eilean Donan Castle, but you get the idea.

People keeps on arriving, lots of kilted men and all. And I still look towards the door, waiting to see a familiar face coming through, but no luck. No familiar kilt or dress whatsoever.

I look at the altar then, and there he is as well, Cristiano Ronaldo, sitting on the same velvet and gold chair (aka, a throne): 

Velvet and Gold chair, aka throne.

Unfortunately for me, Palpatine is also there, looking extremely busy arranging things for the damned unnamed celebration that never starts. Just then, CR looks at me and smiles,  and just my luck, Palpatine realises and looks on my direction too, frowning in a very intimidating way. Kind of like this, but in ceremonial priest/bishop clothes: 

Palpatine/Darth Sidious looking at me sitting in the pew.

He looks rancorous and revengeful, there's no other way to see it, but says nothing and goes back to CR to tell him something. 


More and more people is gathering inside the church, but the damned thing that has to start, doesn't start. I notice that someone has taken sit next to me. 

It's CR. 

"You should have come when he told you to," he says compasively. "He's not happy, now." I stare and feel seriously worried by then.

The rest is more of a blur. I just remember Palpatine ranting, enraged, about something to the people congregating there, as if he was angry about something else -cough...- and was just venting out. 


However, the most bizarre thing is that, in the dream, CR's presence had a calming effect on me and my fear of Palpatine. And I really, really, really want to clarify once more: I DON'T LIKE CR.  AT ALL. NOTHING. ZERO ATTRACTIVENESS IN MY EYES. Honest.


And so thus ends Church Wars,  Episode II. Can't wait for the next installment. So many questions. Why is PriestPalpatine that angry with me? What's the ceremony I'm waiting for? Why is Cristiano Ronaldo sitting on a throne?! And what's more, why him at all?!?!


Not a boring moment in my subconscious, I guess. 


xxx