Binge.

Impressions from a weekend in a bigger city.

It pays to be nice, even in mid-air. But clearly we didn't pay enough, because all of these people are awful. Their ineloquent voice-overs dictate our movements, and tell us that we'll be late. Quite late. And I pity the poor boy whose machine was still whirring as he wandered through. Sure, it might be dangerous, but a quick request would surely have been preferable to a ten-minute diatribe on just how he might have killed us all.

And it really was quite late. So late, in fact, that once we found our room we were unable to get out. We couldn't be given keys, let alone eat dinner. So it was that we sat by a table of drunks, the smell of spilling beer hovering through the open window, with a packet of biscuits and an empty Vergina.



I had forgotten the rain. This isn't the steady flow of home, not at all. From empty skies come a terrible flood, causing passers-by to evacuate to the nearest entrances. It was the library's painted archways which saved us from the terrible torrent. By the time we'd seen all the ancient manuscripts, winter had retreated and these bloody Autumn leaves came to greet me once again.



Soup from a stall in a laneway, poured from a ladle in a large wooden crate. Seating upstairs, they say. May we? Why, certainly, that's what it's there for.

Only, it's empty. Vide. Barren, save for the layers of dirty plates, souvenirs of the many who had come before. And the sign reading 'Home Made Ice Cream'. Yet no sign of Ice Cream, and thankfully, no sign of Home. A fully stocked bar, with a door wide open. Galliano, Bombay Sapphire, and the quiet hum of the fridge below. And there is nobody around. Not a staff member in sight, and it seems like nobody has cleaned up here for a while. Do you think we - think we could? I mean, couldn't we?



This is not just hospitality. This is war. Each restaurant a competitor, facing one another in a deadly game of conquest. Each hungry pedestrian a target in this pavement battle. Our first challengers seemed to come from the developing world, quietly mumbling to us in a language we could not understand. A plea, but never a bargain. But suddenly, we are arrested. We are held still by flowing words, laced with a magic not one of us could refuse. We huddle, like a football team before the last play of the third quarter. Our decision is made in an instant. We accept.

Two free bottles of wine. Score.



Oh, shut up. This is a supermarket, you can't go here. Go piss in the alleyway.



This place is full of bars. Not pubs, and certainly not clubs - bars. Where the lights are dim, and the clients wear coats and hats. And gloves. And the beers all arrived by sea from the continent, and the vodka came from beyond the Iron Curtain (cellared since before the Iron Curtain's demise. I can see this history in their eyes). I guess we'll stick to gin, hey? Gin it is. I shouldn't have drunk so much wine. But it was rather nice. Oh, this chair is comfortable. Seems to have come from the Victorian era, too, all wooden and padded and embellished with curves and edges. So comfortable, so...

... how long was I out for? You took photos? Fuckers.

Yes, bouncer, I slept well. Thanks for asking. Taxi.



I've been here before. Its blackened walls close in on me as I draw nearer. It is full of space - luscious, carefree space. Inside, glass jars reveal an unfamiliar face. Why this face? Why photocopied onto sheets of paper and placed inside glass jars? And why this tarantula light-fitting, without even a single light? And why all this space, for so few items of clothing? Why $250 for a black cotton t-shirt? Why?



Why does home seem so barren, when here is a playground of imagination? A satchel made entirely from the canvas material rescued from the roof of an impounded convertible. Score.



He's the singer in the band. I know him well. His voice echoes through the room, searching as always for notes which seem beyond reach. The voice is the same, but the songs are unfamiliar. And when I look at it, so is he.

He used to be so handsome. I once took a ladyfriend to see him, only to have her spend the hour relating just how much she desired him. I've seen him on the dancefloor, stumbling in circles, the remnants of a night's drinking carrying with each step, and yet still he left on the arm of a girl he hadn't even wanted. Now he's all blocked hair and porn-star moustache. Like he's trying his hardest to keep chaste.

She, however, is beautiful. And every one of us would marry her, without saying another word.



The question came suddenly, a soft voice from behind the locked door of the unisex toilet cubicle. Her name was Anna, but I never saw her face. I may forget her, but her wisdom will remain forever.

"What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?"



At last, my love has come along. My lonely days are gone.

Don't laugh. Just because we're three white guys drinking German beer and gin don't mean we got no soul.



This was her city, and even now I can only see it through her eyes. These markets, these stalls, this coffee, were all hers to share. But that's all over now. All that she owed me has now, finally, been returned. She might not even know I'm here. And so I can reclaim this, this city, this life. I can take what I've been offered. Her shops, her clothes, her memories. Even vegetarian dumplings, though not the same ones. And it's not just the dumplings, either. It's the company. I'm sitting here, with her friends. Only, apparently they're now my friends. She might not even know that they're here with me. They are such lovely people, and the fears and tragedies that tumble through me never get in the way when we talk.

And we talk, although we don't mention her at all. That, at least, is all over now. Now it's about spaces, and times, and opportunities. We talk of things we can share, and ways we can hide. How can we circumvent the world, to do exactly what we want despite everyone else's expectations? It might be difficult, but it is possible.

And where have they taken me? This museum is quite odd, a collection of video games, just a history of my generation's wasted time.

And I think again, despite everybody else's expectations. Not hers, and not even my own. This is my city now. And I don't even live here.



This is my life now, too. If I can reclaim that city, I can reclaim myself. I'm not just passing through. I'm here, I'm home, and right now I have things to do.

And I have someone whom I want to see. And she even wants to see me.



So...

... what if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?