Faces are there to be eaten

Allo.

Found a pub. A nice one. It’s got a roof terrace and each floor on the way up is populated by funky-looking Stamboulians. Imagine a bar in Barcelona.

The area called Taksim is a beauty. Windey European streets packed with bars and restaurants and fish mongers and vegetable stores and people. It would be the ideal place to live.

But I don’t live there.

Maybe some of you have seen that Whit Stillman film ‘The Last Days of Disco’ remember how in the first flat the Chloe Sevigny character lives in, she has to go through somebody else’s bedroom to get to hers? Well that would be my room in this flat.

But that’s okay so far. The girl that lives in my walk-in closet (how the tables have turned, oh Destiny!) is more than sweet and thus far complementary body clocks and mutual consideration seem to be carrying us through.

V pleasant atmosphere in the flat. Bit like being at camp. I arrived, rang the bell and was greeted by the two girls and it was all very business-like, shook hands, unpacked, hung up the suit and then we sat down, had a fag, I made them laugh and it’s been plane-sailing ever since.

Am simply not thinking about London, friends, etc. It feels a bit like when you’re wilfully ignoring a partner. Which, I guess in a way is pretty much what phucking off to Istanbul is.

Need to go again.

M

~ by julian2000 on 16 February, 2008.