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It's a fine line between living for the moment and being a sociopath.

Patricia B McConnell: For The Love Of A Dog.

Pema Chodron: The Places That Scare You

Daniel Wallace: Mr Sebastian & the Negro Magician

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. --Pablo Neruda

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Euro-Gay Commuter

Before a couple of months ago, I had never heared the term “Euro-commuter”. Now, I am one: in the UK during the week, in Paris on the weekends. The train that takes me to work is the Eurostar, zipping beneath the English Channel on the way to the office on Monday mornings.

It’s temporary. Job titles move faster than contracts. Contracts move faster than house-hunting. House-hunting moves faster than relocation companies. In the interim, I am a Euro-commuter.

We cast our minds forward to the move, looking forward neither to leaving our current home, nor to the kafuffle of picking up and putting down everything in it. Not knowing where, exactly, we will live, we cannot yet look forward to it. Like getting a birthday present from someone who doesn’t know us, we are guardedly excited to find out what lies ahead. We have no idea whether it will suit us.

What you do not understand and are a little aftraid of, you mock. So, we have taken to declaring that we will decide the location of our new home solely based on the joke potential of its name. England offers long lists of possibilities. Just a few within easy striking distance of my new office:

Cockpole Green

Hurley Bottom

Crazy’s Hill

Goff’s Clump

The English don’t find these names the least bit droll. And I’m sure they don’t realize that that, in itself, puts them in the same category as folks who call happy people “gay”.

But they have history on their side. Writing this, I am sitting in a pub that has been open since 1135. Not the time, but the year. AD, not a.m. I’m kind of well-traveled but I’m still impressed both by the scope of European history, and how casually the natives interact with it. I’ve spent most of my life in places that consider the 12th Century virtually pre-historic. If they had anything built in 1135, it’d be a tourist attraction. This place, by contrast, is just a neighborhood beer joint. Even though, like, Fred Flintstone got smashed here. You know, back in the day. I think he was feeling gay.


Comments on "Euro-Gay Commuter"


Blogger CooroyRoy said ... (4:53 AM) : 

Ahem! my fine wordsmith - I presume when you used the word 'drole' - you meant 'droll'? i.e. "amusing in an odd way; whimsically humorous; waggish."

Forgive me if it's simlpy a example of one of an "American" way of fiddling with the English language - like 'harbor' or 'color' :)
Good to see you're back blogging again. Good luck in Berks. Hugs from the Girls.


Blogger Houston said ... (5:16 PM) : 

Left my trusty copy editor at home, clearly.


Blogger Houston said ... (5:42 PM) : 

Just hit me why it came to me automatically in that spelling. It's the French spelling (with a circonflexe, bien sur!).


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