In the end, the cold always wins. One can only imagine how cold a nose can be, as if it weren’t even there. There were days in Manila where I found myself spread out on the bed, fanning myself with whatever flat surface I could find, not complaining, but bemoaning my fate of having been chosen to endure the temperature of a string of islands quite lose to the equator.
Outside, the temperature dips below zero and keeps on dipping without mercy. Outside, the car windows are fogged up as if very heavy fornication issues were taking place between the plush car seats.
But who, in this weather, would even think of stripping down to one’s underwear, even with the heater on?
A lot of people, I muse silently, with a grin playing at the edges of my lips, ouhla; if only you could see me. After all, the best radiators are loved ones.
But yes like the born digressor I am, I digress: I am here, a faithful reporter, to report, supposedly, of newness and all kinds of exciting happenings. But I’ve been a lazy person, lounging in beds and warm baths, flipping books in languid fashion as if I were Cleopatra herself, minus the dramatic eyes and the obnoxious relationship with Antony. No, there is no excuse for it, even in this text I try to evade the inevitable, skirting thru unneccesary details just for the pleasure of delaying what I have been wanting to write for a long time.
Discovery countdown
So far accomplished: the discovery of food. Racquettes, crepes, tartiflettes, all go down my throat and settle comfortably (and sometimes not so comfortably) in my stomach. Next on the list: the French lessons. From the calm pleading of “Deucement, s’il vous plait, deucement…” as someone fires a barrage of French ammunition at my face, to the struggle of pages in my Point par Point French book, I would have to say that I have at least accomplished some things, mostly simple conversation, translating my bedraggled collection of words into something comprehensible.
Biennale
The Biennale (“C’est Arrive Demain”) is in Lyon: a grand, sweeping culmination of conceptualization and visualization, the reason behind the string of saliva dribbling down the side of my mouth. The Biennale, set in four different locations in Lyon; the Biennale, with one light show featuring music by Jay Jay Johanson himself; the Biennale that, with its “adult” content, refused to let me in without proper identification of age, as only 18 years and above were allowed into the Sod & Sodie Sock Cap O.S.O of Mike Kelley and Paul McCarthy (a display of conceptual brilliance). I had to show identification, too, back in Manila, to watch Fight Club. If I look young there, I suppose I look ten here. Pffff.
FNAC, France’s “everything important can be found here” store as I am pegging it, has an English book corner. Of course, with the exemption of the classics, there are some pretty damn good titles on the stand. But I can’t help but jump to another topic.
Austen and the problem with her classic
Let me tell you the problem I am encountering with Austen’s Sense and Sensibility: it’s formed like a snobbish school clique back in my all-girl’s (insert gagging here) private school. They talk about nothing but boys. From start to page 85, boys. Boys, boys, boys. A family moving away, the gorgeous children meeting boys. The center of conversation is of bachelors and bachelorettes and BOYS. No, I do NOT feel sorry for myself reading this book in my age. You can tell me that I have no culture and appreciation for a book as “grand” as this, that I am one of those Coupland-reading fanatics without any link to the roots. I don’t care what you say. I don’t even plan to finish this book. Nor do I care to get to the end before I start forming opinions and critiques. I’d rather criticise now. I’m at page 85 of this horrible book and I refuse to go one page further, to hell with Marianne and Elinor and their spiritless, spineless mother. I would throw the book if I could, but since I am a firm believer against book-throwing, anyone who would like a copy of this disgusting thing can send me an email with their address and I can ship it over to you, with gladness.
My first emails to my family once arriving here were the customary “cuddling-up-to-you” emails, the “Oh-God-and-how-is-the-dog” emails when normally I wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass to the smelly dog anyway. I expected to be the apple of my parent’s eyes a bit longer, even if only thru email, 3 months in the least, but one month tops they’re writing monosyllabic replies to my tales of woe.
Dear everyone, I madly typed, the cold here reminds me of Sylvia Plath’s description of London winters, and it’s only Autumn. Why didn’t you force me to buy those ukay-ukay coats? Why did I even bring my lovely sleeveless shirts? I’m no thermometer but the temperature is around minus 78 degrees outside (at this point I sniff melodramatically and continue with immense exaggeration) … and the cold it seeps thru my skin and I don’t have any more lotion and my skin is all dry. Why didn’t I bring more moisturizer. Miss you all. Kala.
Came the reply of my mum: Kala, I am so glad to hear news from you. Everyone here is fine, all a bit busy especially myself with the task of [insert list of motherly tasks here]. Send me more pictures. We miss you!
I increase drama to the cold because I have a low threshold for it. I never used to open the electric fan or at least never aimed it directly at me, even during summer. It’s something I have to get used to, I know. As we were walking the other night in a minus 2230 degree weather to the Chinese restaurant, Julien told me that I saw the evil in everything, in response to my complaints that I was turning to ice with each step that I took.
I promise
This is going to be the last weather-related complaint you will hear. I am going to focus on things other than the unnerving cold that finds a way to enter my coat, scarf and gloves (I must stop this sentence before it turns into a paragraph)… I wrote an entry filled with witticism (not all witty as usual) last week with pictures and a very sharp and description of everything that was happening, but for some reason it got lost, so I guess I’ll have to put others instead.
Very excited I am to be going to Paris this week, by the way. Spent the weekend at the Beaujolais and I want to move into the country and eat me a lot of peaches. But first, Paris. Maybe this time I’ll be able to visit Tristan Tzara’s grave, as I was unable to do last year (because I was too stupid to look at the right cemetery names). Cross fingers for spice, life, and everything nice, a great trip ahead, gloo gloo the magical mystery tour, step up, step up!
PS. By the way, the clocks have changed here, we’re one hour early. I don’t know how I as a person can benefit from this strange occurence.
