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06/26/01
-----Original Message----- My favorite scene in the much-maligned "St. Elmo's Fire" takes place near the end of the film, when Mare Winningham's character has Rob Lowe's character over to her new apartment. She's escaped the bad engagement and is finally starting to build up her self-esteem. She tells Rob Lowe about how happy she is, being free and alone and independent, and about this really great peanut butter and jelly sandwich the night before. "And it was my peanut butter, and my jelly, and my bread . . . and it was the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich I've ever had." And then she gives this really sweet smile, her cherubic cheeks blushed with excitement. It really is the only great moment of an otherwise useless movie. Later on, of course, Rob Lowe deflowers her to the strains of cheesy saxophone music, cueing a nation of women put their index fingers in their mouth and make gagging noises. But that one part was good, and I don't know why it popped into my head at this moment, but it did. Anyway, I'm in Vienna, wasting time before my night train to Berlin. I finally broke down and got a couchette for this trip, even though I know I won't sleep. It seems like a waste of money, but maybe I'll get lucky and it will be really cozy in there. I opted for the three-bed couchette, as opposed to the two, as I'm always slightly paranoid of being alone with someone on the European trains. The last time I travelled in Europe I was pinched and grabbed more times than I care to remember. I'm hoping there is safety in numbers. Vienna was a pleasant change from dirty, crime-infested Budapest. There isn't much going on here, but everyone is very attractive and stylish. It sort of reminded me of the intersection of Bedford and 7th in Williamsburg: lots of pretty people strolling around doing nothing in particular. I saw a Dali exhibit in a very weird and dark gallery space, as well as the Secession, per Dori's recommendation. I really enjoyed Secession–a frieze by Klimt–and sat in front of it for forty-five minutes, wondering why some people are gifted, and others are not. Last night I wandered through the streets searching for a few good bars that had been marked on a map for me by a punky looking couple I had met the night before. I ended up at Zipp, a little grunge dive bar in (I think) the first district. I chatted with the bartender, and someone down the bar bought a drink for me! It's funny–the whole time I was in Budapest, getting hit up right and left for cash, I kept thinking, "All I really want is for someone to buy me a drink." I didn't need anyone to buy me a drink–I can certainly afford my own–I just wanted someone to take care of me for just a moment. I missed that feeling of chivalry. The guy didn't even try to chat me up or anything, and left soon after. I felt all shy and girlie for a second. And then the bartender and I engaged in a rough discussion of American politics. Most of the Europeans I've met like to comment on the double standards of American sexuality, which, of course, I have to agree with. They also have a lot to say about George W. Bush, mostly that he's an idiot, and we are all idiots for electing him, and so forth. Agreed again. We were asleep at the wheel. It won't happen again, that much I can tell you. But I didn't freaking vote for him, and I don't know if I can defend a nation of people night after night. Isn't it enough that I not talk to Americans? Must I now stop talking to Europeans too? Sigh. No, they were all lovely. I enjoy a spirited discussion, and each time I have it I develop more innovative and articulate explanations for how George Bush got elected. I've gotten nothing but good vibes from the Europeans with whom I've spoken. But I would just like to say, even though there is clearly a condescension on the part of Europeans toward most Americans, they still listen to fucking Eminem all over the place. You think we're stupid, and then you listen to our most hateful export? Kids today, I tell you.
Ciao baby, |