Ultrasparky

Hell of a trip, except for the plane ride itself. I’m very sad to have left all my pals in England, but very happy to be back. Very sad to be going to work in a few hours, very happy to get to sleep in my own bed first.

Jonathan remarked that I was pretty quiet on my first night out with him and David, and attributed it to my reluctance to be seen as American. Well, that’s a bit of paraphrasing of something that I was saying, but didn’t quite express the point.

That evening in particular, I was a little wiped out from my trip north, and I was perfectly content to let the two of them lead me around from glam bar to glam bar while they swapped stories of their own recent vacations. I wasn’t feeling a bit shy or self-conscious.

I was explaining, though, that when I’m out on my own in a foreign country, I tend to be quiet as a mouse, very reluctant to open my mouth and betray my nationality. I keep my interactions with waiters, shopkeepers and the like as monosyllabic (though as exceedingly polite) as possible, and quietly pass myself off as a local. Mostly, this is the flip side of my pride in being a savvy urbanite at home. I like to be seen as cool and capable, hip to the local customs and habits no matter where I am, like any jet-setter ought to be. The greatest compliment I can get in a foreign city? Someone coming up and asking me directions.

The other part is, however, that I’m usually a little embarrassed to be an American, and I slip into the role of apologist. It’s not completely true, of course, that Americans are loud and course and pushy when they’re abroad, but it’s more likely than not. American tourists often seem to act like they’re in a particularly vivid part of Disneyland or Epcot Center, but one where they’re not quite getting the service they expect. Every time I’ve been abroad — even in England where we all speak the same language — I cringe when I hear that homegrown accent griping or making some dim-witted exclamation. I never say a peep around other Americans if I can help it. If I’m able to tell they’re my countrymen, it’s probably because they’ve just done something that justifies our bad reputation. This is why when I do interact, I’m so aggressively polite and easy-going. I don’t want to be that guy.

In England, though, I run into a particular dilemma: after a while there, I start to slip into a bit of the accent. I can’t help it, really — I do it in the South, too, and even in Brazil I started to speak like a really good ESL student. I just adapt to what I keep hearing around me. As my use of slang changes and the shapes of my vowel sounds morph, I get even more self-conscious about the sound of my voice, worrying that it sounds like I’m intentionally faking it. If you see me at home in the next few days, you’ll hear it: At this point I’m all, “That bahstard took the piss out of me, just ‘cuz I left my trainers and jumper back at the flat.” I’m an English-language Zelig, not noticing how I try to escape notice. It’s goofy.

I’m fucking exhausted, but at least I’m here, relatively safe and sound. What an ordeal it’s been so far! After two weeks of barely sleeping, I took a catnap after work on Friday, only to have a half-hour barrage of stupid nightmares. So I gave up on that idea, and just lugged my cheapskate ass out to JFK via the subway. Keep in mind that thw two subways and the shuttlebus to the terminal take almost an hour-and-a-half. So I get there, haul my bag through the long check-in line, and the guy at the counter is suprised that no one told me my flight was cancelled weeks ago. Well, it turns out that the ticket they issued me way back when was accidentally put in for the 16th of October, that’s why no one told me! OK, so I’m not having a tantrum, ’cuz that’s not my style, but I’m aggravated as all get-out. Needless to say, everything leaving for London that night is booked, but I can get a 8:30 flight the next morning. Hmmm, that would mean leaving the house at about 4 a.m., right? Thanks, sir, that’s very helpful.

I didn’t want to haul ass all the way back home for a four-hour nap, possibly filled with more stress-induced nightmares. Also, I would be in such a foul mood that my roommate would have to fear for his life, for no other reason that he would be within striking distance. So I decide distraction would be in order. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere to leave my bags at the airport, so I couldn’t really ditch them and go to the movies and an East Village pub crawl, which was my first thought. I remembered, though, that friends were having a little get-together at their swanky new pad near Wall Street, so I decided to go there and hang out and check out the new Xbox. It was a good plan, although it didn’t occur to me that when I got out of the subway I would be looking directly at the Area Formerly Known as the World Trade Center, unexpectedly getting my first close glimpse of the burnded, twisted rubble of the complex. That threw me for a loop, to say the least.

But the diversion with pals did wonders for my morale and gave me a place to nap in their deliciously minimalist studio, and at four I dragged myself right back to JFK. All went slowly but pretty well from there, even though a nine-hour delay left me with a lot of running around to do once I got to London. I dropped my bags at Jonathan’s flat, and zipped off to meet my local friend before he got off work at a pub called the Coleherne somewhere on the other side of town. I didn’t quite make it time, but caught a little of the tail end of their grand re-opening party before heading back to his nearby bed-sit. Not as swanky as the Greene estate perhaps, but it had a warm, if tiny, bed and I had been up for almost 36 hours straight at this point, and could barely remember my own name.

Today has been a bit of a low-key blur, wandering around with this friend trying to work out some of the details of the rest of my stay. Which looks like it will settle down soon, thankfully. Another night of sleep and I might even be able to carry my end of a conversation.

More to come, no doubt.

You people are not getting your money’s worth from me. I was just looking through my oldest entries from this site, and I realized that I have totally given in to pointless, banal chatter. Hell, it’s not even funny anymore around here. I’ve totally lost my touch. Or maybe I’m just too mentally exhausted, or finding myself thinking about too many things that would be inappropriate to mention here. Maybe I’ve gone back to taking the funny, quirky things I see and do for granted. Who can say? Probably me, if I thought about it, but who has time these days? I’ve been so busy the last two weeks that I’m looking forward to tonight’s flight to London just so I have a chance to sit still and read magazines or daydream for a while. Maybe I’ll get some clarity with my honey-roasted peanuts and thimble of soda.

Check out this little nugget I wrote a while ago:

So here is my pledge: I’m going to try and stop pulling punches. I’m going to try and resume getting to the meat of things, instead of just carefully dashing off pithy asides and generating my own spin. I don’t intend to put my whole life on display here, since nothing helps out a story a like a lot of judicious editing. I’m not trying to play the exhbitionist, and I always want to leave more levels and facets unrevealed so that there’s a difference between me and the public face I maintain on the site. But I want to get back to the spirit with which I began UltraSparky — the spirit of shameless self-indulgence, coy confession, and light-hearted insight.

Y’all have totally been swindled. I stand ashamed.

But I’m going away on vacation tonight, and looking forward to a few days of q.t. with friends, relaxing and wandering, and curling up at night with sexy boys that make me smile. Maybe the change of scenery will make for better copy. We’ll see.

My hair has achieved optimum length again — short enough to avoid being a problem, long enough to achieve the tossled scruffiness I prefer. This means I’m about halfway between cuts, and that there’s no way I will have a decent haircut when I get to England in November. UK Bloggers consider yourselves warned — I will not have characteristic Brooklyn hipster hair when you meet me.

My hair-care regimen has one basic rule: I must be able to deal with my hair in less than 30 seconds after showering. This rules out the constant trimming required of a crew cut or a shaved head, or the combing or other styling required by longer hair (which I don’t have the hairline for, anyway). Basically, I just like to get out of the shower, smear a fingerful or two of cheap product into my hair to keep it under control, and then leave it in a sort of controlled mess. If I have to take the time to be careful about this in anyway, I shave my head and start to grow it all out again.

In other news, a rigorous regimen of calisthenics and stomach crunches, along with efforts to eat less (we will ignore the pastries with Charlie on Saturday), have already begun to have a visible effect. I don’t have to concentrate as much about holding my stomach in. I remind you all that this is all about getting rid of extra weight that I put on recently so I can back into the stuff I already own. I have not become obsessed with body fascism to any degree, so stop telling me everything’s fine and I’m worrying about nothing. I already know that, and I’m not obsessing about what you keep assuming I am. Chill out.

[This batch of random shallowness is sponsored by the ongoing state of things in New York City in the wake of the WTC disaster, and the current bombing of terrorist camps in Afghanistan. I have been freaked, and continue to be freaked by this entire thing, but I’m just tired of articulating my distress. Suffice to say, it was nice to go to California where people are definitely not as affected as they are here, but I’m back now and it’s still spooky to see all those posters and candles and cops and National Guardsmen and the empty skyline. Thank you, that is all.]