I See London, I See France

Dreams are a funny thing. One of my fellow psychiatry resident LOVES to interpret them. As I was fully immersed in the most fulfilling sleep in recent memory, I had the following dream.

I was with a female friend learning Arabic at some slick looking institute or something when her teacher kept saying. “Yamaz.” Then I asked,

“What’s the difference between ‘yamaz’ and ‘yella?’”

Knock, knock, knock

Apparently it was NOON. Merde. Clearly I had underestimated my sleep deficit or overestimated my abilities. Dubai very kindly reminded me of the time, and offered use of the bathroom for grooming. Scrub, wash, brush. I straightened, inspected, and gave a nice Blue Steel in the mirror.

Off we went.

It was Dubai’s goal to find some food that was both delicious and not available in America. In the matter of availability this removed all but the most remote of food in the world, and in the matter of deliciousness it conversly removed all English foods. What’s left?

Japanese pizza. Kid you not.

Dubai stood proud and donned a big Scandinavian smile as we arrived at Abeno Too to have said pizza. I chose the Osaka Mix and they cooked it right on the burner in front of me. It was thankfully less acrobatic than our American Japanese steakhouses, for I fear the consequences of such with a ‘pizza.’

It was a weird combination of eggs, onions, bacon, parsley and thinly sliced dried ham and moved in a strange serpentine manner like a hundred tiny vipers to a charmer. I’d never seen anything like it. Dubai chose a decidely less active omelety looking Japanese burrito thing and we both delighted in the experience. Hoji cha (that robust and woody Japanese tea) was poured, we cleaned our palettes and left.

We were making our way toward the Parliament building when we stumbled on a demonstration in Trafalgar Square. MY PEOPLE! Dubai looked a bit bewildered as there were no fewer than a thousand Bengalis shouting about saving curry houses. I of course explained my inordinate intense love of India, love of Bengalis, and love of curry houses. His furrow brow lifted, and he cheerfully suggested pics be taken.

Laura, a friend of Barré’s I met in Houston, was studying in London but called to say that she would unfortunately not be able to meet us given her massive paper on the efficacy of the HPV vaccine. Sighs were exchanged and Dubai and I approached the Parliament Tower.

We were absolutely dumbfounded of how to reach the small park in front of it. There were people there sitting and relaxing yet there were no identifiable crosswalks and pretty harried traffic circle poised to take kneecaps quicker than Tony Harding. Just as we were discussing the above, there was a whole flock of small children in Boy Scouts (or their British equivalent) led briskly across the street despite imposing buses and spirited hatchbacks.

We looked at each other and bolted across the street...safely...to reach the curb of the park.

Perfect. Dubai remained uncharacteristically passive and cheerless as I gathered snaps of him in front of the Tower (and then gave into the silliness), the same way I used to protest pictures in front of any Washington monument, memorial, or other neoclassical DC building. So we exchanged spots on the grass and attempted to add another jumping shot to my collection. Successful. Kudos to Dubai’s photo skills. We then walked toward the Tate Modern. Before approaching the behemoth former powerstation turned art museum, I again became distracted by a flurry of acrobatic skaters under a bridge in a cocoon of graffitied walls. I intimated to Dubai my childhood desire to be a skater (very unfortunate), and off we sauntered. We quickly stopped at a giant, curious metal cylinder with cameras on its periphery that was installed on the walkway. A jumpsuit-clad dark haired Briton explained "The Memory Project." Must be more art. I was disgusted with a rather candid shot of me eating caramelized nuts, but Dubai gave another big Scandinavian chuckle.
After taking a call in what I can only assume was some Eastern European language, we arrived in Tate’s side entrance. The giant crack in the floor of the museum’s foyer (it was artistic people) was filled as was the elevator to the top floor for tea. Tea ordered, Dubai verbally slaps my wrist for attempting to tip, and I put my chair-seeking skills in overdrive and score two bar stools looking out onto the Thames and St Paul’s. Nice.

I became chagrined as more light, deep, and in between conversation with Dubai made me internally question this worlds horrible immigration policies.
In keeping with our rapid pace, we headed over that previously shaky Millennium Bridge to Old old London. We giggled as we passed Ye Old Cock, debated the ease of learning Farsi (easy), Urdu (hard), and Bangla (still up for debate), and mulled over potential countries of citizenship and career. Though I probably should have said it, I clearly think of Dubai as one of this world’s singular creatures and it really kinda pains me to think citizenship could strangle potential global contributions. Alas...the road ahead.

I was immediately blasted from sympathetic melancholy by Muji. This is the super simple Japanese store that I had been cyberstalking for MONTHS. Dubai seemed perplexed by my fanaticism as apparently this store is apparently as common as fog in London. I remained restrained and purchased a mere two postcards, and some small passport sized books. Dubai suggested I jot down quick points about my day as I travel and my eyes dilated.

A breeze through Chinatown led back to Dubai’s where he was preparing some curry cabbage. He stuffed his near sacred swim gear in a bag and walked me back to the train station. Hugs, and promises of meeting in Buenos Aires next followed lightly and fragrantly. My sadness to depart from such a WONDERFUL time was balanced by my desire to thoroughly consume Paris’ glory.

Train ride was short and child-free, merci à Dieu.
J’arrive à Paris.