Bottle Up and Explode!

Every time I go on a trip or go off to a new place for a time, I always have a new soundtrack featuring one artist for that time. At Stanford it was Neutral Milk Hotel (In the Aeroplane over the Sea is a fine album), another trip featured Arcade Fire and A Silver Mt. Zion, another one Against Me! -- all of them, in some way, lend me some perspective on the current state (pun intended) that I'm in. In London, I have officially found my one artist that will take me through the next two months -- Elliott Smith. If you've never heard of Elliott Smith, you're missing out. He's the epitome of forlorn, soft-edged, mellow rock. I've had his albums forever and appreciated them, but I never listened to them as much as I listen to it now. I cannot enter the tube in the mornings without Elliott Smith's "Baby Britain," "Pictures of Me" or "Junk Bond Trader" on my Ipod. I find it interesting, though, because he tackles a myriad of subjects, some that I'm familar with, others not at all. And even though you can call his music "depressive," "moody," and "sad," he doesn't leave me that way at all. I just get it. And it leaves me strangely contemplative and content. Anyway, the reason I posted this is that I'm not going to be able to think about London without associating it with Elliott Smith, just like all the other places where I have listened to a certain artist or a certain CD excessively. It helps you understand things, you know? I don't even know. Maybe I'm just too much of a hipster for my own good. But you love it. ;)

So this weekend was pretty chill for me. Elizabeth went to Paris (yes, be jealous), so I was left to meander around London (yes, be jealous also). And that's basically what I did. I wandered. I walked for hours upon hours. I went into about 20 H&Ms. I sat in Kensington Gardens and found the Peter Pan statue again. I walked around Leischter Square and Picadilly Circus. I went to the National Gallery and looked at paintings by Degas, Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet, etc. On Saturday, I met up with yet another Elizabeth (who will be forever referred to as ER), and we ate at McDonalds and watched the theatrical version of Mary Poppins. I'll tackle McDonalds first: everybody says it different here, but, you know what? It's not. The chicken sandwich and french fries that I ate tasted exactly the same. Granted, I haven't eaten McDonalds in the states in about three years, but I feel that I have enough McDonalds experience from my heyday of fast food eating to determine that it's not different at all. So there. After that, ER and I had our Disney fix with Mary Poppins, which was charming, to say the least. Your standard Disney fare -- very nicely executed, with a set design appealing to the eye. Of course, I was a big fan. The area that they plopped that play was interesting though... more of an area where Cabaret should be playing, or Chicago. But that's just another London contradiction.

Elizabeth just came back from Paris with croissants and chocolate yum yums, so I'm currently in a chocolate coma. And apparently, I have sprained my ankle, according to Elizabeth's expert opinion (it's pretty expertly), but it's a light sprain. I must have done it yesterday somehow, but I don't know how. It's swollen and it's going to get all bruisey in a couple of days, so fun! It doesn't hurt that much, though, which is weird. Only when I do things like, I don't know, miss a step walking down the stairs because our house is so dark. Then it hurts.

Back to the drudgery of work tomorrow, woohoo! It's not that bad, I'm just being dramatic. But weekends are just so much more fun...