The downside to my belongings being held hostage in storage somewhere is my lack of free coffee resources.  London on its food and drink alone— if you aren’t careful— can bleed you dry.

[Premature Postscript: I will rediscover this in about ten minutes when I get up and pay the equivalent of $3.80 for 6 ounces of black coffee.]

As I write this I am perched at the Department of Coffee and Social Affairs and sipping on the lesser-requested filter coffee at 8AM as the radio plays ‘Once In A Lifetime’ by The Talking Heads. I love this old song, and the irony of this morning’s soundtrack is not lost on me.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack 

And you may find yourself in another part of the world 

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile 

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife 

And you may ask yourself 

Well…How did I get here? 

I fear that life up until now has consisted of me throwing all of my crap into the air, watching it land in a strange new place and then feverishly working to organize it all again as often as humanly possible. I’m just over one week into my life The London Version and am presently without my stuff. At the same time I’m trying to convince myself that the pound sign (this one: £) is really just like the dollar sign (this one: $). I know that’s patently untrue, but it makes the prospect of living here seem a bit less financially appalling. Especially when I’m running out to score a suitable cup of coffee at least once or twice a day. You might say I have a drinking problem.

Letting the days go by

Let the water hold me down 

Letting the days go by

Water flowing underground 

Into the blue again

After the money’s gone 

Once in a lifetime

Water flowing underground 

I’m apartment hunting at the moment and am not exactly thrilled with the process. In fact, I always hate this part of the move. Even if I had an inexhaustible amount of funds, I think I’d still have a tough time sifting through and selecting a suitable place. There’s just too much involved when it comes to selecting a new Forever For Now Home.

I remember back in 1993, my French host mother Gisela decided to uproot me and my host sister as we moved from the countryside into Grenoble’s city center. During the multi-day move fest, I remember thinking that it was a major pain in the ass— and I only had two suitcases to pack up!  While driving to our new apartment, I remember her explaining the logic behind the move, “My ex-husband, he doesn’t understand,’” she said, “but to me, it’s a game.” I nodded in comprehension, but my inside voice was saying that her idea of a game was noting short of masochistic.

And you may ask yourself 

How do I work this? 

And you may ask yourself 

Where is that large automobile? 

And you may tell yourself 

This is not my beautiful house 

And you may tell yourself 

This is not my beautiful wife 

So my thought was to spend some time here bitching about the trials of flat hunting after moving to a new city. But I don’t want to think any more deeply about the subject— and you don’t want to read about it either. Furthermore, my tiny cup of coffee is empty and the shop’s soundtrack has taken a turn for the worst by playing Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Dreams’.  To me, Fleetwood Mac is the ultimate in carsick music, and I certainly can’t stomach this stuff first thing in the morning.

I guess I’ll need to find a more suitable place to continue my online apartment search. I hear that nearby there’s a converted Victorian-era public urinal that is now a sophisticated coffee shop. No kidding. Not sure I’ll ever call it my local but hey, it’s worth the effort to pick up my stuff and see what it’s all about, right? Hell, I moved to London so I might as well make a microcosmic mirrored effort to head that way— even though hanging out in a men’s toilet sounds a bit masochistic. And just downright nasty.

 

We’ve all got a game that we’re playing. So long as we get to abide by our own set of ridiculous rules, I guess it’s fine so long as your antics don’t get too much in someone else’s way. Gisela the old host mom has probably moved her crap halfway to Mongolia by now, and me— I’ll probably continue to move and caffeinate globally as well. Who knows. Right now I really don’t want to think about the further torture I’ll inflict upon myself over the next couple of years.

I’m hoping to find a place to settle into soon. My bank account and I are really starting to miss my coffee grinder, Aeropress and espresso machine. Yes, I own and use them all…and they are patiently waiting for me in some British storehouse. It’s ridiculous, but it’s a ridiculous that I kinda love.

Same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…

Same as it ever was…