London Bridge is Burning Down

Don't I wish a London post could just be about London; the River Thames, the Tower Bridge, the view of Big Ben and all that lovely stuff.

Right now, me talking about London would be the equivalent of when my grandparents put on kimonos and gave a three hour lecture/slide projection about their trip to Asia when I was 10.

"...And this is me on the bridge. It was neat-o. Here we are crossing another cool bridge. London has really cool bridges."

You see, I'm just dripping with eloquence about London. Maybe the words will come later, the desire to describe it. Actually, you know what? There is someone who can describe and photograph it much better than I can.

I've got nothing on London because the trip wasn't really about the city itself, it was about reuniting with old friends and contemplating scorching the fuck out of bridges.

Sometimes reuniting with friends brings about the discovery that you don't have as much in common as you had remembered; you are older now and less tolerant of truckloads of bullshit and less willing to spend precious moments in life that are way-too-damn-quickly passing you by alongside people with whom you find no shred of commonality with any longer.

Or maybe the bad news is that you do find commonality but you just really, really don’t want to...you've been trying to flee from those parts of your personality. Your currently fighting yourself to not be that.

Maybe the bridge-burning fantasies are just something that happens in your thirties when you stop caring how you are perceived and start realizing that if you want to live your life the way you truly believe you should, it sometimes means throwing a match to the bridges you can no longer be bothered to cross, mainly because, well, you've been up and down this riverside a shitload of times now and you know damn well there are a million other more beautiful bridges just begging you to cross them.

There are bridges that are more historical in your life, ones that you believe are sturdier, with much more interesting architectural designs that please your eyes and your feet and your spirit as you cross them, solid ones that can take on various onslaughts of meteorological and erosive phenomena, ones that make you feel more secure in that they can seemingly take on much more weight; the weight that true friendship sometimes demands.

I love those bridges; the really good ones.

And it is bridges like these that make the flimsy, shaky ones that are made of old rotted wood, barely held together by a few rusty nails just not seem worth the trouble anymore.

I didn't exactly burn any bridges in London, because maybe I avoid conflict when I should stand up for my values, but on numerous occasions I greedily caressed my matchbook with my index finger, running it up and down the side taking a single powerful match out and teasing it against the sandpaper threateningly, all the while eyeballing some kerosene and begging my husband to shackle me down so I would hinder my pyromaniacal tendencies of ending friendships. Those walking, talking, flammable bridges I sometimes refer to as "my friends", beckoned to be served a molotov cocktail of shut-the-fuck-up with my burning flame of bridge-detonating disapproval.

But in the end, the flimsy-ass bridges remain intact.

I just don't know that I'm gonna cross them anymore.

And that, my friends, was my weekend in London.

And I guess this post officially makes me an asshole.

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MuthaF%@ckin' Roundabouts, or how I got tricked by a civil servant

Well, folks, looks like I'm Spain's bitch again.

No, scratch that.

I'm Spain's leather-clad, gagged-yet-whimpering little gimpy bitch. That's much more accurate.

Remember in my last post how I told you that I was a horrible driver? Well, that was a slight exaggeration. Besides a few parking tickets, I have an impeccable driving record (Mexico notwithstanding). While under observation (i.e.when I'm taking the driver's test I just forked out 400 euros to take), I drive with the precision of the popemobile chauffeur trying to make a U-turn in the middle of a pro-choice parade.

That fact (belief, ridiculous notion, whatever) stands in stark contrast to the fact that I failed my practical drivers exam within the first 30 seconds of driving. No exaggeration. Just a big 'ole fuck you for your effort.

See, here in Spain, the point in any exam, be it a University exam, a state civil servant exam, or a driving exam is never to actually test your aptitude. It is always, always, always, to see who is sly enough to overcome the sleight of hand and utter trickery thrown one's way. Learning processes in these contexts only exist insofar as they enlighten on how to skillfully manage the cunning and art of deception employed by the examiners and exam writers.

So I show up to the car school at the butt crack of dawn to meet my group that I'm supposed to caravan with to the DMV. There are three of us all together; me, it being my first time taking the exam, another girl, it being her 3rd time taking the exam, and still another it being her 4th time taking the exam. I was feelin' all shades of hopeful at this point, as you can imagine. These two are nervous as hell, with good reason, so I agree to take the exam first.

We arrive to the DMV to meet our state examiner. He looks like a dick and barely mumbles, "buenos dias" before he's demanding we sign all kinds of forms.

Finally we are ready and I position myself in the driver's seat.

Deep breath.

Adjust seat first.

Adjust mirrors next.

Fasten seat belt, yo.

Await instructions.

"Ma'am, please go straight until we reach the roundabout," the examiner says.

My heart is kind of pounding, because, fuck, I hate roundabouts and feel like I'm gonna get sideswiped by every other car going round. But there isn't much traffic and hell, I've been driving for 16 years. There's no need to worry.

As we slowly approach the roundabout the examiner says, "Please take the second exit out of the roundabout". Sweet, I'm already in the right lane, so no worries of side swipage. I cruise along passed the first exit, counting mentally, "One Mississippi..." and then I see the next exit "Two Mississippi!" I signal, of course, with my blinker, 'cause I am ON that shit and I take the second exit as per the muthafuckin instructions.

"Stop the car. You have just entered a street that is closed due to construction. You have failed the exam. You have just been made Spain's little bitch"

(okay, I made up that last line).

We back up to look at the sign and I see this:

Honestly, have I completely lost it, or does that look like a closed road to you, what with the two blue arrows and the rails that have been removed so that cars can pass, and the cars actually passing??????

The examiner proceeds to tell me that I should have ignored his instructions to take the second exit and in fact should have taken the third exit and that by following his instructions, I had disregarded a vertical sign prohibiting entrance.

The other two people taking the tests also failed again.

As soon as Spain has had enough of my money, or as soon as I learned all of the possible tricks that can be thrown my way, like the examiner telling me to do things that are apparently illegal, but that don't look illegal to anyone with full use of their faculties, I will have a driver's license.

Round two is next Wednesday. I might instigate a mosh pit if I don't pass.

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