After six weeks in the EU, today is our first speaking English to strangers and having them understand every word. And we can understand their every word. Well, almost. But I can understand 89% of the words coming out of people's mouths. Okay fine, 74%, with no wind or background noises. It's interesting to be able to understand what people are murmuring in public places again.
In the off time between shows, we’re staying with our friend Fran. She is rad and is subletting a room at an artists’ commune for the summer. The place is a large warehouse thoughtfully split up into small bedrooms and large working quarters. It’s inhabited by inquisitive cats.
Since the building is in the middle of the city, some of the residents got crafty and manipulated landscaping tubes into produce planters. I want to make one.
I spend an afternoon at the Tate Modern. Somehow I get a bit lost on the way there, and my miscalculation is exacerbated the slight sprinkle hanging in the dreary English sky. I have to keep asking people with crooked teeth for directions. I get pointed in the right direction for the fifth time and wander past a pirate ship and the Globe theatre before finding the museum.
The first floor is overtaken by a dance troupe’s rehearsal.
The Tate’s Surrealist exhibit is quite nice, as it’s not just a one-sided excuse to display the Miros and Dalis the museum owns, which is what I feel most surrealism exhibits turn out to be. It’s actually extremely varied and displays a lot of different takes on Breton’s brain child. I’m bummed that I don’t get much time to stay in the galleries and reflect on it, but a rock show calls with issues to be dealt with.
I know it’s going to be an interesting show when I keep getting emails that there is no back line sorted yet. But like most things, everything get’s sorted and the kids are lined up to party. And so we party.
I hope I never have to stay anywhere near Kings Cross again. What a CF.
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