5.Towards Dover

23th of August

Towards Dover. Blackfriars, London St. Pancras, Ashford, Dover. Early on the timetable. As usual. In Blackfriars station a girl runs to catch the train. Needs to hold her bosom with the left forearm. Needs a better bra.
Time for thinking. For remembering. Remember her smiles. Remember her tired eyes. Remember her "smileys". She was of a shocking beauty. There's nothing more cruel then beauty. To remember is not the best thing, in such a situation. But memories are all that remains to you. I liked to breathe the scent of her skin. I did the same with Alice. Breathing scent/skin of a woman by night, in justapoxition to the particulate we breathe by day.

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Fucking National Railway!!! On the train from St. Pancras. Direct to Dover. First call Stratford International. I live 10 minutes from Stratford! But why did they send me to Central London? I could sleep one hour more.

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High Speed. Out of the window wind turbines, rows of Black Poplar Trees, warehouses covered with asbestos and electrical pylons. Then a flat landscape: ponds and marshes, grazing cows. Next top Ebbsfleet, where te government wants to build a "garden city" to confine the benefit people and those who can't afford a rent in London.

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Nearly to Ashford. The English countryside became a bit more wavy. We even passed by a wood. I miss my woods. The incompleteness feeling last yet: the feeling to have forgotten something, to be not ready... ready for what?

A girl on a forum asked me what I like the most. Easy to answer: sharing. Now I have nobody to share with. Except my blog few readers. This journey is loosing its purpose. There's no reason to travel out of reach of the people you know when you just don't communicate with nobody.

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Some English cyclists on the train. They speak about Brussels, Paris and the Gioconda. Brussels is horrible, Paris is dirty, the Gioconda is small, London is much cleaner, London is much better. Tipical English behavior: if they can't appropriate of something and say that it's their or that was made thanks to them, they piss on it.

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Collected online paid ferry tickets. "Mr Gennari?" "Yes. Do you need an ID?" "No. When you confirmed me your name it's fine to me." Another tipical behavior.

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The famous white cliffs of Dover are greyish from close. And small. Absolutely no worthy of mention. The caste is everything but impressive. Dover looks to be another homologated town of terraced houses. Cliffs seen from the sea: at least they are long.

To think seriously about selling a kidney. They work too well and some days they are a real nuisance. One would be enough and I could make some money. The fumes coming from the ferry chimney fall down on the poop deck. What do we breathe?

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On French soil. Nobody speaks English. Even at the Port. Watched a comic scene. If the Britons would stop demanding to be understood when they speak quickly... All the journey long I had the engine noise in to my ears. An incessant dull hammering. And the particulate pushed down on the deck by the wind. But I wanted to enjoy the sun.

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Reached the hotel. Collapsed on the bed. Slept 2 hours. Then walked throug Calais. Public gardens wonderful. French gardeners have got the point on the English. Journey even more empty of meaning. Too many thing bring back memories of the trip to Paris. I was happy during those days. Far from London and with her. Don't think she understood the range of what she did to me. She took everything from me. I'll build something else, I always stand up again. But fuck sake it hurts. Thinking to send her the shot of her on the rocking horse in the small public garden. She laughed out loud. Happy and so beautiful. Would it be mean? Or sharing the pain? An attempt to delay the spiritual separation which logically should follow the physical separation?

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Calais is invaded by migrants. Mostly illegals. They mass in every green area. Had troubles in a park because I was taking photos. They wait for the chance to go to England. While I wait the change to flee it...