Read preceding parts...
The best thing about a British B&B is the supplemental 'B'.
This specific establishment is located in Scottish Dumfries and offers nice little affordable rooms with your complimentary toothbrush, towels, single use soaps, hot beverage set, a colour TV and the daily paper, accommodating the clean, soft Bed for a pleasant night's sleep.
Nonetheless, what makes a B&B fun, rather than just a functional requisite, is the Breakfast part. Stretched wall-to-wall and distinguishing this dining space from the lobby on one end and the bar on the other, are buffet tables, laden with trays of butter drippin’ toast, bacon strips, fried eggs, juicy sausages, thick ham, baked beans and tomatoes, golden hash browns and home fries, as well as tea, coffee and orange juice to wash down this cardiac cataclysm just waiting to happen.
You cross over, lightly treading the soft, ruby coloured wall-to-wall carpeting that substantiates the cosy feel of this palace of bliss, load your plate with a second serving of energy to last you for the whole day, pour yourself a third cup of caffeine and head back to your table. A man and a woman are seated at that table, enjoying this full English breakfast in a heedful manner reserved particularly for the non-English. She hasn't touched her beans, and is unsure whether it would be proper to get a second cup of coffee. He, on the other hand, is well into his third plate, happily scooping up her set-aside beans as well, and asks her to get him another cup of coffee while she's at it.
You're chewing on life's gristle and wondering which one of them you resemble most. The one shall enjoy whatever he's given and shall feel comfortable no matter where he is. The other is more self-conscious, to the point of unease, and practices moderation, whether she's aware of it or not.
Meanwhile, your dad has finished his breakfast and is now using the complementary marmalade and peanut butter garnishing the table for making sandwiches that will last you rest of the day, which is what most other true blue & white Israelis would do. Your mom returns with a fresh cup of coffee, that must have known the true meaning of freshness quite a while back, and the two of you step outside for a smoke.
Though the balmy sun of early summer is steadily rising from behind the green hills, she's still got her winter coat on. You're finally down to wearing flip-flops.
Funnily enough, you end up discussing the weather.
Over the past eight years or so, spent largely across the Americas and around Europe, you've only seen your parents on infrequent home visits. On rare occasions such as these, you really ought to make an effort to catch up. On their part, they sure did made the effort to travel all this way and visit you, an effort that is not just economical but a mental and physical one just as well. What may appear simple, almost banal even, in your young yet travel experienced view, may seem and feel challenging, to the level of being painfully so, to your dear parents and from their habitual village lifestyle and prospective.
"It's the end of our potato season anyhow," said your uncle. "Why don't you take a few days off and show them a good time," he added, and even threw the company car into the bargain. Only too happy to abide, you're now taking them on a road trip across the hilly Scottish countryside, in between dreamy lochs and in search of a monster that has been defying disenchantment, like some windmills fighting giant.
Only now, for the very first time, you detect the ascendancy of grey in their hair; notice the slower pace governing their movements; the little groans your dad, ever full of vitality, lets out every time he climbs into the car. Age sure seems to have jumped up on them, yet it's your arse that is getting bitten. The fact that time doesn't stop for anyone comes as no surprise. Time, after all, is change. However, standing witness to age leaping terraces, rather than steadily rolling downhill, can sometimes come as quite a shock.
Then again, it is also but an inevitable repercussion of the life choice you made, to be drifting rather than being around; not to share much in the day-to-day lives of your loved ones and thus precluding them from yours. Still, whenever you do end up meeting, be it encounters set six months or three years apart, you sure do seem to be capable of carrying on as if nothing has changed; as if no time at all has elapsed, allowing for the time it takes to brief each other on occurring events without haste, yet wasting none on the righteous sense of unfamiliarity.
Therefore, sharing a pleasant, Edinburgh-bound drive, you chat about this and that, getting re-familiarized with opinions and stands, noticing changes in perspectives. After all, every chance might turn out to be your very last for making an impression. Unpleasantness needn't be pronounced nor probed, for your lives bear no dependency. This is just how long distance, life supported kinships are maintained.
While the sun is slowly forsaking the Scottish skies, which seem to take more naturally to the dark and gloomy elements to begin with, you drive into this magnificent medieval city; a folktale city of an age of chivalry, enchantment and harsh realism.
They say Edinburgh is particularly beautiful after sunset, when dark blue skies cape this municipality of rough stone and crafted marble, enclosing it in a bubble of its own artificial illumination, re-enchanting the eye and the mind. Life as a whole, in all its various little aspects, is more enthralling once the sun has set, as far as I'm concerned. Besides, being Saturday night and all, it just doesn't feel right to stay in instead of setting out on an exploration of the domesticated and wildlife scenes Edinburgh has to offer. However, mom and dad are rather exhausted after a long day's road trip and perfectly content with enjoying all the comforts that a budget hotel has to offer.
And so, master of your own destiny, you stroll aimlessly, from avenue to lane, from streets into narrow alleys, where Machiavellian cobblestones play their little tricks on wandering feet, pulling them out of route. Slippery, uneven cobblestones with a mind of their own, hinting numerous possibilities with every step you take.
Thus, you stroll along some streets offering a splendid view of the illuminated Edinburgh Castle, past Waverley Station, and then finally get completely and utterly lost.
Following the very trickle of your own fountain of youth, you find yourself downtown, lead there by the aroma of grease, carried on the evening breeze. Scattered along the pavements are vendors of sausage and kebab; duteous servants of the dark lord of night on earth, existing in any given culture and vending gastronomical revulsions too horrid to be consumed in the light of day or clarity of sobriety.
Out on the town, Edinburgh's youth is already raucously mingling in countless displays of courting rituals, showing off just how crazy they can be on these rare occasions normality is not socially forced upon them. Clock towers all across town have barely sounded their tenth stroke, and high school, college and university students by school weekdays are already rubbing shoulders, puking their guts out in downtown alleys. If you’d look closely enough, you might even be able to spot an odd middle school aged little tart among the crowd.
Alcohol has never been your element, nor are middle school slappers, for that matter. Therefore, a night on a town that feels like all it wants is to escape its daylight self makes you rather nauseas.
Still hanging on to the young and the reckless bank in the stream of life, you purchase a nauseating burger and attempt getting into the spirit of things. Nevertheless, you soon find yourself drifting back towards the hotel. Might as well call it a day, you finally give in, for it is only the responsible thing to do, what with the long sightseeing day that awaits you on the morrow and all that.
Guess you can’t stay young forever.
No matter how hard you may try…
* * *
“Open your eyes…”
.
.
A chilling gust of wind blows discarded newspapers under the bench. You reach down and grab one. The front page headline declares that Jack the Reaper has struck again! "Why are you not surprised?"
By the trash bins, dripping knife in hand, Jack grins at you and winks. "You sick little twat!" he whispers, for he knows that he's what you came here to see.
.
"Yalla,[1] open your eyes! There's still lots to see…"
.
Mr. Hyde, leaning against the crumbling brick wall, suddenly performs a triple summersault that lands Jekyll, face down, on the hard pavement. "Elementary," says Holmes, as he steps onto Baker Street and helps the good doctor back on his feet.
"Please Sir. I want some more," cries Oliver, and gets another meat pie surprise from Mr. Todd, the barber. After a few bites, he begins to chock on an earring and croaks, decreasing the surplus population by one whinny boy.
.
“You need to open your eyes now!”
“How come? Is it morning already”
“Dunno. Something that has to do with the tour, I guess. Dad has been poking you for ages now.”
.
So you open your eyes.
The bench is stone cold and the air is smoggy and dense. Most passersby simply pass you by; only one remain standing there.
You know that you're in London. These sorts of dreams don't just take place anywhere. But, for the life of you, you cannot seem to be able to recall what for. Maybe something that has to do with your parents. Touring 'em or something like that.
“What parents in bloody London? You know they're continents away, right?!"
You accept the cigarette and light it up. She lights one up as well, and both of you stare at one of the ugliest streets in living history as if it was a stage. Actors enter, perform their parts and exit into little dramatic productions of their own.
“Dad has gone to buy you a cup of coffee," she says.
"Dad? Buy?? Really???" Indeed, reality can be stranger than fiction.
"Amazing, huh?"
"So, how was the wax museum?" you enquire.
"'t was a waste of time and money, if you ask me," says your dad, as he hands you a Starbucks paper cup.
"Good thing no one is asking you! It was lovely, thanks," retaliates your mom.
“Yalla, zazim?”[2] you ask, as you finish the coffee and throw the cup in the bin.
Today's tour starts at Hyde Park and ends in the nearby Buckingham Palace. It's a short yet colourful route, easy on the old legs and mind's eye. The previous day it was Baker Street and Madame Tussaud by tube, and tomorrow, they'll be doing the rest of touristy London by themselves.
You love them as much as you love yourself, which is even more than you love her, but the next day you’ll be spending with her, for she's got a special kind of lovin’ reserved especially for you that they ain't got, thank god.
Coming up on your left is Speaker's Corner, a landmark in the British democratic heritage called Freedom of Speech. Anyone who has anything to say or nurtures a wish to encourage a debate about any subject, be it political, social or whatnot, here is where he steps up to a platform of his own creation and speaks his mind.
"So, what's this guy here talking about?"
"I believe it's the price of dental floss."
"Oh…"
"Time to make a nice little break," you reckon, and sit your arse down on the grass, which is what grass is there for. Dad pulls some sandwiches out of his bag, and you're glad to discover that they had cheese at the breakfast buffet back at the hotel. You have two each, mom has just one.
"Don't get filled up, though!" you caution them. "I'm gonna take you to the only real Fish & Chips stand I found in London so far. It's right on our way to the palace."
"And this great lump of stone you see above us is Wellington Arch."
"Not much of an architect this Wellington fellow, huh..."
But soon enough, the majestic glamour of Buckingham Palace sucks all the sarcasm away, leaving them literally breathless. Then again, maybe the walk was a bit too long just as well. However, there just happens to be a royal band playing in the yard for God knows what reason, and the changing of the guards is coming up soon.
Tapping into the pulse of a grand metropolis such as London is all about timing.
Tapping into the pulse of a romantic relationship, however, transcends time itself.
You're here because you wanted to spend your last few days in England together with her, but right now would gladly be anywhere else instead. All those tears sure don't make it any easier, and you're rather weary of pointed fingers. She knew that you'll be gone even before the whole thing began, and there were, after all, no strings attached!
She could have slept with any number of other men and you wouldn't have minded. Fact is, she chose not to. You would have made a different choice, rather enthusiastically, but had no opportunity present itself.
You put your slightly worn out parents on a city tour bus this morning, so they could get off and on again at any of the London musts you've seen enough of. They're probably taking photos of the Big Ben as you speak. Only that instead of speaking there’s weeping. She's one tough gal, that’s for sure; but, when all’s said and done, a gal nevertheless.
Yesterday, you spent the afternoon playing Frisbee with a bloke, a journalist and a friend. He's tired of the socializing scene of London's petite-intellectuals and is thinking of moving down to Brighton, where life is simpler. If this goes on, you'll be spending the night at his bachelor pad rather than in her maternal arms.
"One mother at a time is more than enough, thank you very much."
You know she's hurting. You're not that dumb. And, of course, you know why.
“But you were honest, goddamn it. Whatever left your lips was the God honest truth, and sometimes in life, that's got to be enough!”
She wipes away her tears and you shag. It's a swan song for shagging, and a rather beautiful one at that; all grace and passion, with a touch of sadness. You're still gonna spend the night at your mate's place, though.
In your case, romantic involvements often end this way, with the ripping of a bandage, leaving the wound to mend organically in Time's healing passing. Like any of her predecessors, she's offered a genuine invitation to join you on your journey across Siberia. Like all the rest of them, she never seriously considers that option.
Nevertheless, your refusal to succumb to the most attractive and sensible option of embarking on a third profitable winter in service of tubers and the Queen best demonstrates to you both that which does really matter to you the most in life.
C'est la vie, say your old folks, it goes to show you can still be friends.
The open road is now calling and your time in England is done.
So long, darling England, and thanks for all the chips…
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] C'mon (Hebrew)
[2] C’mon, we’re going! (Hebrew)
The best thing about a British B&B is the supplemental 'B'.
This specific establishment is located in Scottish Dumfries and offers nice little affordable rooms with your complimentary toothbrush, towels, single use soaps, hot beverage set, a colour TV and the daily paper, accommodating the clean, soft Bed for a pleasant night's sleep.
Nonetheless, what makes a B&B fun, rather than just a functional requisite, is the Breakfast part. Stretched wall-to-wall and distinguishing this dining space from the lobby on one end and the bar on the other, are buffet tables, laden with trays of butter drippin’ toast, bacon strips, fried eggs, juicy sausages, thick ham, baked beans and tomatoes, golden hash browns and home fries, as well as tea, coffee and orange juice to wash down this cardiac cataclysm just waiting to happen.
You cross over, lightly treading the soft, ruby coloured wall-to-wall carpeting that substantiates the cosy feel of this palace of bliss, load your plate with a second serving of energy to last you for the whole day, pour yourself a third cup of caffeine and head back to your table. A man and a woman are seated at that table, enjoying this full English breakfast in a heedful manner reserved particularly for the non-English. She hasn't touched her beans, and is unsure whether it would be proper to get a second cup of coffee. He, on the other hand, is well into his third plate, happily scooping up her set-aside beans as well, and asks her to get him another cup of coffee while she's at it.
You're chewing on life's gristle and wondering which one of them you resemble most. The one shall enjoy whatever he's given and shall feel comfortable no matter where he is. The other is more self-conscious, to the point of unease, and practices moderation, whether she's aware of it or not.
Meanwhile, your dad has finished his breakfast and is now using the complementary marmalade and peanut butter garnishing the table for making sandwiches that will last you rest of the day, which is what most other true blue & white Israelis would do. Your mom returns with a fresh cup of coffee, that must have known the true meaning of freshness quite a while back, and the two of you step outside for a smoke.
Though the balmy sun of early summer is steadily rising from behind the green hills, she's still got her winter coat on. You're finally down to wearing flip-flops.
Funnily enough, you end up discussing the weather.
Over the past eight years or so, spent largely across the Americas and around Europe, you've only seen your parents on infrequent home visits. On rare occasions such as these, you really ought to make an effort to catch up. On their part, they sure did made the effort to travel all this way and visit you, an effort that is not just economical but a mental and physical one just as well. What may appear simple, almost banal even, in your young yet travel experienced view, may seem and feel challenging, to the level of being painfully so, to your dear parents and from their habitual village lifestyle and prospective.
"It's the end of our potato season anyhow," said your uncle. "Why don't you take a few days off and show them a good time," he added, and even threw the company car into the bargain. Only too happy to abide, you're now taking them on a road trip across the hilly Scottish countryside, in between dreamy lochs and in search of a monster that has been defying disenchantment, like some windmills fighting giant.
Only now, for the very first time, you detect the ascendancy of grey in their hair; notice the slower pace governing their movements; the little groans your dad, ever full of vitality, lets out every time he climbs into the car. Age sure seems to have jumped up on them, yet it's your arse that is getting bitten. The fact that time doesn't stop for anyone comes as no surprise. Time, after all, is change. However, standing witness to age leaping terraces, rather than steadily rolling downhill, can sometimes come as quite a shock.
Then again, it is also but an inevitable repercussion of the life choice you made, to be drifting rather than being around; not to share much in the day-to-day lives of your loved ones and thus precluding them from yours. Still, whenever you do end up meeting, be it encounters set six months or three years apart, you sure do seem to be capable of carrying on as if nothing has changed; as if no time at all has elapsed, allowing for the time it takes to brief each other on occurring events without haste, yet wasting none on the righteous sense of unfamiliarity.
Therefore, sharing a pleasant, Edinburgh-bound drive, you chat about this and that, getting re-familiarized with opinions and stands, noticing changes in perspectives. After all, every chance might turn out to be your very last for making an impression. Unpleasantness needn't be pronounced nor probed, for your lives bear no dependency. This is just how long distance, life supported kinships are maintained.
While the sun is slowly forsaking the Scottish skies, which seem to take more naturally to the dark and gloomy elements to begin with, you drive into this magnificent medieval city; a folktale city of an age of chivalry, enchantment and harsh realism.
They say Edinburgh is particularly beautiful after sunset, when dark blue skies cape this municipality of rough stone and crafted marble, enclosing it in a bubble of its own artificial illumination, re-enchanting the eye and the mind. Life as a whole, in all its various little aspects, is more enthralling once the sun has set, as far as I'm concerned. Besides, being Saturday night and all, it just doesn't feel right to stay in instead of setting out on an exploration of the domesticated and wildlife scenes Edinburgh has to offer. However, mom and dad are rather exhausted after a long day's road trip and perfectly content with enjoying all the comforts that a budget hotel has to offer.
And so, master of your own destiny, you stroll aimlessly, from avenue to lane, from streets into narrow alleys, where Machiavellian cobblestones play their little tricks on wandering feet, pulling them out of route. Slippery, uneven cobblestones with a mind of their own, hinting numerous possibilities with every step you take.
Thus, you stroll along some streets offering a splendid view of the illuminated Edinburgh Castle, past Waverley Station, and then finally get completely and utterly lost.
Following the very trickle of your own fountain of youth, you find yourself downtown, lead there by the aroma of grease, carried on the evening breeze. Scattered along the pavements are vendors of sausage and kebab; duteous servants of the dark lord of night on earth, existing in any given culture and vending gastronomical revulsions too horrid to be consumed in the light of day or clarity of sobriety.
Out on the town, Edinburgh's youth is already raucously mingling in countless displays of courting rituals, showing off just how crazy they can be on these rare occasions normality is not socially forced upon them. Clock towers all across town have barely sounded their tenth stroke, and high school, college and university students by school weekdays are already rubbing shoulders, puking their guts out in downtown alleys. If you’d look closely enough, you might even be able to spot an odd middle school aged little tart among the crowd.
Alcohol has never been your element, nor are middle school slappers, for that matter. Therefore, a night on a town that feels like all it wants is to escape its daylight self makes you rather nauseas.
Still hanging on to the young and the reckless bank in the stream of life, you purchase a nauseating burger and attempt getting into the spirit of things. Nevertheless, you soon find yourself drifting back towards the hotel. Might as well call it a day, you finally give in, for it is only the responsible thing to do, what with the long sightseeing day that awaits you on the morrow and all that.
Guess you can’t stay young forever.
No matter how hard you may try…
* * *
“Open your eyes…”
.
.
A chilling gust of wind blows discarded newspapers under the bench. You reach down and grab one. The front page headline declares that Jack the Reaper has struck again! "Why are you not surprised?"
By the trash bins, dripping knife in hand, Jack grins at you and winks. "You sick little twat!" he whispers, for he knows that he's what you came here to see.
.
"Yalla,[1] open your eyes! There's still lots to see…"
.
Mr. Hyde, leaning against the crumbling brick wall, suddenly performs a triple summersault that lands Jekyll, face down, on the hard pavement. "Elementary," says Holmes, as he steps onto Baker Street and helps the good doctor back on his feet.
"Please Sir. I want some more," cries Oliver, and gets another meat pie surprise from Mr. Todd, the barber. After a few bites, he begins to chock on an earring and croaks, decreasing the surplus population by one whinny boy.
.
“You need to open your eyes now!”
“How come? Is it morning already”
“Dunno. Something that has to do with the tour, I guess. Dad has been poking you for ages now.”
.
So you open your eyes.
The bench is stone cold and the air is smoggy and dense. Most passersby simply pass you by; only one remain standing there.
You know that you're in London. These sorts of dreams don't just take place anywhere. But, for the life of you, you cannot seem to be able to recall what for. Maybe something that has to do with your parents. Touring 'em or something like that.
“What parents in bloody London? You know they're continents away, right?!"
You accept the cigarette and light it up. She lights one up as well, and both of you stare at one of the ugliest streets in living history as if it was a stage. Actors enter, perform their parts and exit into little dramatic productions of their own.
“Dad has gone to buy you a cup of coffee," she says.
"Dad? Buy?? Really???" Indeed, reality can be stranger than fiction.
"Amazing, huh?"
"So, how was the wax museum?" you enquire.
"'t was a waste of time and money, if you ask me," says your dad, as he hands you a Starbucks paper cup.
"Good thing no one is asking you! It was lovely, thanks," retaliates your mom.
“Yalla, zazim?”[2] you ask, as you finish the coffee and throw the cup in the bin.
Today's tour starts at Hyde Park and ends in the nearby Buckingham Palace. It's a short yet colourful route, easy on the old legs and mind's eye. The previous day it was Baker Street and Madame Tussaud by tube, and tomorrow, they'll be doing the rest of touristy London by themselves.
You love them as much as you love yourself, which is even more than you love her, but the next day you’ll be spending with her, for she's got a special kind of lovin’ reserved especially for you that they ain't got, thank god.
Coming up on your left is Speaker's Corner, a landmark in the British democratic heritage called Freedom of Speech. Anyone who has anything to say or nurtures a wish to encourage a debate about any subject, be it political, social or whatnot, here is where he steps up to a platform of his own creation and speaks his mind.
"So, what's this guy here talking about?"
"I believe it's the price of dental floss."
"Oh…"
"Time to make a nice little break," you reckon, and sit your arse down on the grass, which is what grass is there for. Dad pulls some sandwiches out of his bag, and you're glad to discover that they had cheese at the breakfast buffet back at the hotel. You have two each, mom has just one.
"Don't get filled up, though!" you caution them. "I'm gonna take you to the only real Fish & Chips stand I found in London so far. It's right on our way to the palace."
"And this great lump of stone you see above us is Wellington Arch."
"Not much of an architect this Wellington fellow, huh..."
But soon enough, the majestic glamour of Buckingham Palace sucks all the sarcasm away, leaving them literally breathless. Then again, maybe the walk was a bit too long just as well. However, there just happens to be a royal band playing in the yard for God knows what reason, and the changing of the guards is coming up soon.
Tapping into the pulse of a grand metropolis such as London is all about timing.
Tapping into the pulse of a romantic relationship, however, transcends time itself.
You're here because you wanted to spend your last few days in England together with her, but right now would gladly be anywhere else instead. All those tears sure don't make it any easier, and you're rather weary of pointed fingers. She knew that you'll be gone even before the whole thing began, and there were, after all, no strings attached!
She could have slept with any number of other men and you wouldn't have minded. Fact is, she chose not to. You would have made a different choice, rather enthusiastically, but had no opportunity present itself.
You put your slightly worn out parents on a city tour bus this morning, so they could get off and on again at any of the London musts you've seen enough of. They're probably taking photos of the Big Ben as you speak. Only that instead of speaking there’s weeping. She's one tough gal, that’s for sure; but, when all’s said and done, a gal nevertheless.
Yesterday, you spent the afternoon playing Frisbee with a bloke, a journalist and a friend. He's tired of the socializing scene of London's petite-intellectuals and is thinking of moving down to Brighton, where life is simpler. If this goes on, you'll be spending the night at his bachelor pad rather than in her maternal arms.
"One mother at a time is more than enough, thank you very much."
You know she's hurting. You're not that dumb. And, of course, you know why.
“But you were honest, goddamn it. Whatever left your lips was the God honest truth, and sometimes in life, that's got to be enough!”
She wipes away her tears and you shag. It's a swan song for shagging, and a rather beautiful one at that; all grace and passion, with a touch of sadness. You're still gonna spend the night at your mate's place, though.
In your case, romantic involvements often end this way, with the ripping of a bandage, leaving the wound to mend organically in Time's healing passing. Like any of her predecessors, she's offered a genuine invitation to join you on your journey across Siberia. Like all the rest of them, she never seriously considers that option.
Nevertheless, your refusal to succumb to the most attractive and sensible option of embarking on a third profitable winter in service of tubers and the Queen best demonstrates to you both that which does really matter to you the most in life.
C'est la vie, say your old folks, it goes to show you can still be friends.
The open road is now calling and your time in England is done.
So long, darling England, and thanks for all the chips…
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
[1] C'mon (Hebrew)
[2] C’mon, we’re going! (Hebrew)