Leasehold Valuation Tribunal Time Again
I'm on my way down to Portsmouth for part two of the leasehold valuation tribunal and I was going to explain a bit about that and then post the next installment of the european adventure journal. Unfortunately blogging is not very social and therefore I was forced to interact with real people (friends who are kindly putting the ungrateful isolationist up for the night). So you'll just have to put up with the journal. I am going to have a bit of a rant about cycling and recycling in Bristol, but those topics will have to wait too.
Day 2 - 4th May
The people in Perpignan are defined by a journey, mostly one from Paris to Barcelona or in my case from London but it doesn't matter what the starting place is only that this is a transitory place. As I wandered the mostly deserted streets last night the only faces I saw were those of the disaffected; almost every person that I saw had a hand stretched out. I spoke to an old spanish man in a dirty suit camped outside the station - his car had broken down on the way to Barcelona, could I spare 10 euros to help him out. I walked along the canal, beautiful on a sunny day, less so bathed in the grey drizzly light, fearful of the group of crusties and their dogs camped out under the railway bridge. The first question in my mind as my pulse quickened not why, but what if? The next station is Cerberre!
My first thoughts when talking to the spaniard not, how can I help but I don't want to be conned, or robbed or worse when clearly this was a soul down on his luck, What's 10 euros to me? Just pride.
The whole place felt like the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe because it was a place so unaccustomed to not being drenched in the mediterranean sun that the grey skies and rain fitted like a shroud and banished all but the unhappy wanderers to safety and warmth wherever it could be found. On the literal other side of the tracks where the estates lay any pretence of civilisation were left far behind - characterised by tipped over bins, dogshit on the pavement, drinkers in the cafe not enjoying an aperitif as is the wont of the French but avoiding something sinister. On the streets the youths hurried on some clandestine urgent mission, crossing the tracks in their dark hoodies hunched.
I feel like the tone of my journey has been set by the place and it doesn't make me feel good. I spent the night sleeping fitfully feerful of being robbed in my sleep. But why? My Laptop, Palm, Phone, everything stolen? So what. All the trappings of a material life none important in the slightest. What of the human beings? Each of them with their own journey and yet I assume the worst. This is going to be a long journey.
Normally when I travel my yearning for home is everpresent reminding me which direction to go. But this time I have no home. My tristesse has no cure, I just need to keep moving and hope something turns up.
Day 2 - 4th May
The people in Perpignan are defined by a journey, mostly one from Paris to Barcelona or in my case from London but it doesn't matter what the starting place is only that this is a transitory place. As I wandered the mostly deserted streets last night the only faces I saw were those of the disaffected; almost every person that I saw had a hand stretched out. I spoke to an old spanish man in a dirty suit camped outside the station - his car had broken down on the way to Barcelona, could I spare 10 euros to help him out. I walked along the canal, beautiful on a sunny day, less so bathed in the grey drizzly light, fearful of the group of crusties and their dogs camped out under the railway bridge. The first question in my mind as my pulse quickened not why, but what if? The next station is Cerberre!
My first thoughts when talking to the spaniard not, how can I help but I don't want to be conned, or robbed or worse when clearly this was a soul down on his luck, What's 10 euros to me? Just pride.
The whole place felt like the wrong side of the tracks. Maybe because it was a place so unaccustomed to not being drenched in the mediterranean sun that the grey skies and rain fitted like a shroud and banished all but the unhappy wanderers to safety and warmth wherever it could be found. On the literal other side of the tracks where the estates lay any pretence of civilisation were left far behind - characterised by tipped over bins, dogshit on the pavement, drinkers in the cafe not enjoying an aperitif as is the wont of the French but avoiding something sinister. On the streets the youths hurried on some clandestine urgent mission, crossing the tracks in their dark hoodies hunched.
I feel like the tone of my journey has been set by the place and it doesn't make me feel good. I spent the night sleeping fitfully feerful of being robbed in my sleep. But why? My Laptop, Palm, Phone, everything stolen? So what. All the trappings of a material life none important in the slightest. What of the human beings? Each of them with their own journey and yet I assume the worst. This is going to be a long journey.
Normally when I travel my yearning for home is everpresent reminding me which direction to go. But this time I have no home. My tristesse has no cure, I just need to keep moving and hope something turns up.
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