Bananas and coffee on the underground…a seemingly really good idea, a surprisingly difficult thing to manage.
Henry and I left his friend Paul’s house later than we had planned, sore from our cots but eager to get out into the English sunshine. We managed to not spill too much coffee and headed over to Wellington for lunch. A bit pretentious and (as with everything in England) a little more expensive than we’d prefer, the restaurant had some delicious food and we ate while talking about the future…what was waiting back for us in Seattle, what other parts of the world we hoped to one day see and how to get to the places we wanted on this trip.
We wandered a bit before heading to Double Shot to read our books. I’m still happily making a second round through Just Kids and Henry had begun a book called Wonder that his cousin had given him for Christmas. He was enraptured by the book and finished it before too long. He seemed really touched by it which led him—or at least in my head I’ve associated the two events—to lead us to see if there were any magical tickets to Matilda.
There were. We snatched up two of the last tickets to the matinee of Matilda happening tomorrow and Henry practically danced down the street he was so taken with excitement. We wandered back to a Mexican place we had passed, Pacifico’s, and decided to indulge. Since we left Denmark I haven’t been craving tacos (crazy, I know, especially given everything I wrote while I was in Denmark) but I never pass up the opportunity for good Mexican food. He wiggled with excitement while we got settled and we joked that “no, the 25 year old man isn’t drunk, he’s just super stoked about scoring last minute tickets to the children’s musical, Matilda”.
After an arduous journey back to Paul’s home—a journey that took both of our energy levels down—the boys sat down to catch up and I showered while contemplating taking some sheers to my hair.
I told Henry of my urgent desire to do so and he replied, “you should do whatever you want with your hair, but…” he said, inevitably spotting the copy of Just Kids next to me, or just knowing me well enough, “…you’re not Patti Smith”. I figured he was right and opted for a braid instead, eyeing her hair enviably.
I would like to be a better photographer. I would love to take better portraits. I would love to be photographed myself and to lose the shyness that clouds my ability to do so. I would love it if there was photographic proof that I was also in Europe. Reading Just Kids reignites that desire and I’m working on how to make these things happen. Tips? (Aside from, of course, just doing the thing.)