Onward and Englandward I go, feeling a thousand times better. The sun is blazing, Barcelona is full of bustle, I believe (as I always believe) that kittens and puppies can save us and that I have left nothing behind in the flat.
And I hope, as I always hope, that I have good internet in my London hotel room.
Kyle’s MacBook has saved my life, but it has no battery, and so it’s not a “just slip down to the cafe” kind of situation.
I have a pocketful of leftover coins, a heavy little wad I can scatter in guitar cases and at the feet of living statues, as I make my way to the airport. This trip has been a trip, literally. I had to laugh, last night, writing some of it up, because almost nothing I have to say about any of my interviews is remotely credible. And yet, as always, every word true. I don’t write fiction.
Why bother, when so much happens?
I’m looking forward to speaking to Oliver, someone sensible and grounded. My brain has been prismed by surrealistic painters, crazed inventors, visionary architects and street artists. Also, I should have snagged Doriot’s UK adaptor before she left. And bought a ticket to see Bob Dylan tonight at the Royal Albert. I can’t think of everything, though.
It was fun, on my last morning walking around, to find a few more Clet Abraham sign hacks within a block of our flat. It’s funny what we do and don’t see. I must have walked by each of these a hundred times.
Don’t we always open our eyes wider the further from home we get?