Motherland
Am jetlagged from last week's trip to London, where it become immediately evident the benefits of living in a megacity that never sleeps when the trains come every two minutes instead of every hour. Where I ate tomatoes that were red instead of that insipid pink that make me somehow think of a fishy gene-splice. Where there were a lot of purple coats and high-heeled Mary Janes going on down the sidewalks. Where friends may or may not be anticipating the high finance shitcan. Where it is possible to be called an "international" by a bald old man whose mouth makes you bless North America for its dentistry alone. Even if it means you get to live in a place where the walk to work is not a fashionable trot but some kinda deep Antarctic break-up of slush and sloshing floes.
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