Bagels are one of the things I miss about this place. Italians don't know how to do bagels. *sigh* Oh how I wish for a warm, actually TOASTed bagel with sesame seeds, poppy seeds, onions, and real cream cheese! Or even butter.
Un caffe ristretto in cup, two ice cubes, milk, milk, milk, and straw.
Bagel half #1. From store: plain. Bad, in comparison with bagels of yore, but good in comparison with the concept of bagels in the negative. Add a garlic-herb spread with lots of fat in it.
Italian toaster is practically worthless. Bagel half #2 is frittering away its moistness as I type.
Bagel half #2. Much better toasted that #1 but still not up to par with nostalgia. Coffee bitter but not bad, though I like the Lavazza more than whatever this stuff is . . .
Why, you ask, am I frizzling away my morning blogging here, about nothing whatsoever?
Well, in Pythonite tones, I'll tell you . . .
(Oh, and I put Dumbledore's favourite flavor of jam on Bagel half #2.)
I like to write, and it's addictive. I almost can't help it. I did want to write some terribly personal and awfully judgmental things here, but that sort of stuff is like tabloids on the internet--wrong or outrageously true--and hurtful either way to the writer or the morbid listener. So I'm writing about bagels.
Putting on some Loreena McKennit music . . . I have a feeling I'll be listening to a lot of this in Venice. Venice seems to suit her, even if she doesn't suit Venice.
I've still got to pack, and I should probably look nice, too, which is a bummer. Of course, a sweatshirt and my jean jacket WILL make it in my luggage, but there are times when desperation calls for sweatshirts. They're not BAD for you.
Realise this: I've been trying to dress nicer, when I leave the house. I wear shoes other than my boots, and not always put a comfy sweater over my tshirt. I've worn heeled shoes and conventionally pretty shirts. Even wore make-up for the past week or so, consistently. Not once taken out my despised jean jacket that I love so much. Lots of compliments about how I look nice. Very nice, of course, but I don't like it, and it makes me uncomfortable to be on display. I'd much rather be indignant and comfortable. "So be that way!" I have heard. But then I get a double standard of words and expressions. Bah, it is better to change for a year and then be comfortable.
I'm actually a bit worried. If/when I do get to Ireland, on my own, it will be utterly different to live--on my own. I know my style will change, my habits and routines, my likes and dislikes--it will be a different world. (I'LL FINALLY GET TO HAVE LEBANESE FOOD! It is one of my favorites and Italy has none of it, tragically.) Better, I suppose, that I should have two sets of habits to fall back on just in case one of them doesn't work for a while. But I was so comfortable, there . . .
Of course, it isn't like Edinburgh, but then where else is? Maybe I can go to Scotland for a Ph.D. if they have something, and if the pound lightens a bit. In other words, when pigs fly. I don't know. I like Ireland a lot.
I watched Dear Frankie again last night, behind my work. I love the soundtrack, and the sound of the accents, and the comfortable knowledge that I like this movie. That means I've watched it three times in the past two weeks, which, bar LOTR and the last pre-HBP week of HP, is probably a record.
I'm not sure if I like the actors and actresses outside of the movie (Gerry Butler, though thoughtful and perceptive about the characters he portrays--he will play Beowulf!--has the mouth of a sailor. That isn't good, in my book. And Emily Mortimer, incredibly graceful and talented as she is, plays in Disney movies . . . ), but I don't know yet. That's nice, because I'm free to like it unconditionally, so far.
I like the character that Butler plays in Dear Frankie; he's introspective, gentle, and has an awesome accent, but he isn't all that realistic, based on the men I've known. What kind of a guy would be so emotionally touched--and show it? I don't know what else it is about the character that seems not quite realistic. Maybe a woman wrote the script:P
This is an incredibly long entry. Heh.
Well, I'm bringing moleskines to write in on the train and hopefully I will be able to sit and enjoy myself scribbling for a while. This journal will be different, as it won't be much a travel journal as a personal journal, with maybe some fiction thrown in. I've got empty places in my normal journal, too . . . shall be interesting to figure out how I'll work with it.
Also: last trip, I met a very writable man, who is sticking in my head as a character--I keep seeing him as a person in a story rather than a person I've met (which isn't very nice to him, but it is very interesting to me all the same). I can't imagine we'll ever meet again, and I sincerely doubt he'll ever read anything I write, so I wonder if it is quite safe to write him? Not in the Eleanor Lavish sense of danger--he wouldn't be victimized, just described as I saw him, which is subjective anyway. I'll give it a go one of these days and we'll see how it goes. I'd dearly like to write him in a first person narrative. It might make sense of a type of person I'm not used to understanding, and understanding people is always interesting and useful.
Right. We'll give it a go, and see how things work out. But I'm not telling you when I do write him, and maybe you will guess. If you do, you must tell me.
And I should go now, because I have a placement exam, two papers, and a textbook to read all today.