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Live from the Grand Caf�

prevJul. 11, 2004 - 4:36 p.m.next

At long last, here is the London entry I talked about! Written Feb. 3, 2003 at the Grand Caf� on St. Martin's Lane. For the most part it is copied ver batim to keep the original feeling.

Something is wrong. Twice yesterday I was very dizzy and all day today I have been the same. I don't even know where my green knit cap is--somewhere on the Picadilly Line perhaps, but I don't know, I'm so out of it.

Horrible headaches in the forehead, too. Like a pumpkin bobbing in the surf--that's what my head feels like. Moving my eyes too quickly makes it worse, a storm tosses the sea.

The Italians in the Grand Caf� with me, both workers, seem to sing when they speak their language. It seems to flow like my head: up and down, up, a little to the left, down. The man,a mountain, has a lisp. Only very slight but still there. Amazing to hear Italian with a lisp. He owns the place, I believe. He has a samuri's ponytail--hanging down form the upper middle of the back of his head.

My coffee is "Americano:" a slight mockery of those of us whose ancestors fled to The States and promptly lost (or over time, more than likely) the ability to stomach a strong variation of the bean. I ordered my Americano "white" as opposed to "black." It then came with a mini pitcher of cream, along with already being infused with milk. So the pitcher sits there, here, slightly sloshing with every stroke of my pen as my arm shakes the marble table top. Bowls of white and brown sugar decorate every table save a few... a few, ha, there are only eight to begin with!

St. Martin's Lane. I know not this chosen one of God, but I enjoy the road chosen by him. Here was Macbeth, here is my cafe, here is the Friend's Meeting House: Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday. My head reflecting in the window at dusk, cocked like a dog's listening to the whine, the small scream of a recorder with fingers halfway off the holes. An Italian love song in the background, newspaper folding, unfolding with the turn of pages even farther back in my hearing. The clock, clock, clock of women's thick heels on St. Marty's sidewalk.

The mountain looks over my shoulder and out the window. I'll pay � 1.30 for my white, sissy American cup of java, but what will he charge me for rent? He groans himself into a standing position and retrieves two take away coffees and one slice of carrot cake. The female with eyes as big as two-pence pieces returns: her third time back, always with a bag, a purchase. His daughter? Similarities are there, though she is one-third his size. His green button-up sweater and matching scarf do not leave him, neither Saturday nor today.

The swimming, bobbing, floating has returned. Even sitting here I feel the floor rushing up to meet me, the salmon walls tilting towards my head, the ceiling shifting like an amusemnt park ride. The fact that the cream is not being tossed out of the pitcher comforts and frightens me at the same time: comforts because it tells me that things are not really falling, tilting, shifting and I won't get hit by them; frightens because it is evidence something else is wrong instead of gravity: something within me. She's gone again and I wonder how she can walk so quickly, so sure-footed on the floorboards that twist and roll under my gaze. The passersby seem to be sliding down a slope and then suddenly trudging up it in the same instant. A speeding motorcycle makes me nauseous.

Ciao e grazie.

When the door closes, it sticks at three fourths of an inch every time. She kicks it closed behind her, smiles and says, "Sorry," but you know she does it every day.

Ten minutes till six. Leister Sq and the Underground as a whole will be hell. I wonder who's wearing my hat. Ten minutes past six. I have been sitting in a daze. There are six of us now and I am the only non-Italian. I want another coffee but I know better: I haven't seen the restrooms in Tube stations and don't wish to. Three men, two women, and me, neither man nor woman, just a quiet object against the wall. Non-sex, non-human, non-seen: a presence felt, never seen.

Now there are six Italians in a room designed for sixteen occupants; I am hard pressed to remember I am in England, birthplace of my language, if not my culture. Two vacations in one: visit Uxbridge and London, visit Tuscany. I hear "internet" and "ah, okay" behind me and the white noise of their talk stumbles, tripped by catching its toe on familiar sounds.

Twenty after six: I won't be home before seven-thirty. I'm scared to go back out, but I have no other choice. Remember you are carrying a bag! Remember you are carrying a bag! Do not leave it somewhere. Stand up, pay your bill, and go.

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