And for good reason. A weekend in London. Riding the tube from Heathrow into Oxford Circus I felt electric energy flowing through my limbs. I was on my way into the city. Into the arms of Ali. A fully packed train created a buzz around me that I hadn’t felt since arriving in Switzlerland. The chimneys rose in the distance as the train passed through each station getting closer to my destination. Scenes of Mary Poppins flashed in my mind. The architecture of an old London town rose and fell, with trees interspursed along the horizon and then we were underground. As we neared the city center, the announcements from the conductor repeated themselves more often. “Please mind the gap.” “Be sure to report any suspiscious persons or baggage left unattended.”
Later that night after we would meet for a drink and a filling dinner at a cozy, Italian Resturaunt, I would wipe the black grime from my nostrils. Ah, the bonus of being back in the city: pollution. The true thick of things. Once back at Ali’s flat, we would find ourselves wrapped in our Asian quilt — made after four years of traveling and collecting pieces of material — to watch the Final Episode of Six Feet Under. Tears would fall from the corners of my eyes and slide down my cheeks. I’d bury my face in the nook between Ali’s head and shoulder to hide my meloncholy reaction to a show in which I had a bizarre realtionship since the first time I saw it when Adam’s friend Nick died and we were all gathered in that apartment of that girl that I didn’t like so well anymore four years ago [Bangkok was always a season behind]. I would stay in this place, my citadel, until Ali would feel the tears on his shoulder and we’d both begin to laugh at my sensitive nature.
I would sleep happily and soundly on this beloved Friday night.