Mon 22 July 1968
Just scarred my lip tissue on a glass of boiling tea. Damn. Sitting in a nowhere café on a Luxembourg sides street I chose because they play The Lovin’ Spoonful. (Now they’re playing Philly Soul – maybe in honor of me.) I arrived in Luxembourg just fine, except that my luggage did not arrive with me. This will teach me not to travel with baggage. The consigne man was more surprised by my fuss than the non-arrival of my luggage. Told me to come back in the morning. Checked into the Hotel Chemin de Fer where all business is conducted in the bar. I only had Swedish money and all the exchanges were closed but the patron agreed I could pay in the morning. 175 francs. ($3) Bath? No baths, said the gold crossed, bespectacled, black swathed obesity handing me my key. Third floor; miniscule but comfortable. The old lady gave it to me straight: there are no baths. Washed up in the sink and I didn’t have the heart to shave. The tea is good. My cold has moved from nasal passages to my throat meaning I can’t talk; my voice is either a scratchy whine or a snorty croak. Or silence. Good, good tea. Luxembourg is quite a city. I like the pseudo-Victorian monstrosities of the residential section. Reminds me of the Chestnut & Seventh St Post Office. Maybe its ninth street. You know the one I mean – fronted by the lady wrestlers carved in stone. Nothing’s open on Mondays so I can’t buy a tweezer or pair of shoes. Toss will just have to love me for myself. Woke up at none when the maid banged on the door. I thought I was locked in until she showed me how it worked. Enjoying what this trip has done for me – I’ve pretty well ceased worrying about what I look like. There’s a nice park nearby – maybe I’ll rack out on a bench. Plenty of time to kill – my bus doesn’t leave for the air terminus till 8:45. I bet there’s just one plane a day out of that airport (it looks like the Bucyrus train station.) This café is more of a club. People are streaming in and they all know each other. It must be lunchtime. At first it was just me and Beardy – heavy Germanic type reading an economics textbook – now there’s at least eight men. I need to hang around just to improve their décor. Certainly getting the stare from one of these guys – time to blow my nose as unattractively as possible. 3:30 PM Café of the Hotel de Paris - Walked around Lux, crossed bridge to park, fell face-first on the grass, then walked down every curvy side street that I saw. Walked all over the place. The Office of the State Architect was so cool I wanted to run right in and order something. Bought postcards and pen, wrote thank-you postcards to Swedes and sketched in first few pages of story that’s been playing around my brain. Hot bright weather with a strong breeze. Ummmm. Suddenly the stores all opened obedient to my wishes and I bought tweezers, very nice pair of shoes, rough body cream – when I show up at the Airport a transformation will have been Wreaked. Toss, baby why aren’t you here relaxing with me in the sun? It could be so divine. Feeling lots of affection for Luxembourg. It’s just big enough, and it hasn’t the tourists to bring it down. 6:45 PM – drinking a coke at the Café de la Gare - thrown out of the last café by two old bags who seemed really upset by my desire to put my feet up on a chair. Oh well. Bought a dress at the Monopol and then I felt much better. Beautiful burnt sienna, pink and gold with a pattern of leaves – fake silk. Very nice. I am shortening the hem. $20. What a pity my legs are still covered with rotten apple bruises. If Toss really loves me he won’t even notice them. Still struggling with Iris Murdoch as she mathematically works out all the combinations possible between her characters. Back cover blurb promises “incest, violence, castration and suicide.” Beats druggy black humor. I think the castration is going to be all-emotional, though. Poor Miss Murdoch keeps siding with the reader against herself. I think a novelist is not very good when reader keeps constantly noting these technicalities.
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Alysse Aallyn
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