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I am standing in the corner of the Customs, all the passengers passed by, and new passengers from some other strange countries all left too. I am remained alone. After a while, I see the officer gives my passport to a new officer, then he leaves. This new officer is a very kind man, probably he is from less-west-country. He lets me fill a form, then he checks through the form. And then he lets me stand in front of the camera. I never notice there is a camera underneath the glass box of the customs! I stand there and try to smile and being innocent. The nice man says OK, and he stamps on my passport.

“What is that stamp?” I am so worried that he stamps something terrible, terrible for my future.

“It means next time, if you come to Ireland without a visa, you will be illegal.” He gives me back the passport with a black stamp allowing me short-period stay provided no working.

“Do you understand?” the officer asks.

“Yes. Yes. Thanks you.”

I hold the passport like holding rest of my life.

Walking around Dublin I lost myself again. I am wandering in a park-St. Stephen’s Green. There is a lake in the park, and some swans live there. There are also some weird birds with green neck swimming on the water. The rain arrives, it is like rain curtain. It rains intensely. Nobody, no any plants, no any single leafs, can avoid the madness of the rain. I run out of the park. By the park, there is a hotel called The Shel-bourne Hotel. I walk in.

The hotel is unbelievabal. Somebody plays piano in the lobby. There is a fireplace, or no, two in the ground lobby. The fire is burning. I stare at the fire. I love watching fire, better than TV-the way it changes the shape all the time. The burning things inside are not like coal, or charcoal, or wood. It is a kind of black, long square piece of bar. I never see that before. I sit down on the old-soft-posh-arm-chaired sofa and feel the fire sucks my wetness from the rain.

“Excuse me, do you know what is this stuff burning in the fire?” I ask an old gentleman on next sofa. He is in black bowler hat and dark coat, with his tall black umbrella. He is like from Sherlock Holmes story, an old detective.

“I beg your pardon?” the old man says.

“You know this stuff, the stuff is burning, what do you call that?” I point to the fireplace.

“Ah, those are briquettes, my dear,” the old man answers proudly.

“Briquettes?” Why it sounds like a French bread?

“We also call it peat, my dear,” the old man adds, “or turf.”

The old man look at my deeply confused face. He gets up to perform for me, to help me to understand: “In the old times we in Ireland used spades to cut the turf. Then we’d dry it.” He is doing the gesture of digging and chopping.

The old man has very strong accent, and my English listening comprehension becomes hopeless.

“Turf” or “Tofu”? I don’t understand this word. Why they don’t simply call it “black burning stuffs”?

A young handsome waiter comes with a menu.

“Would you like to order something?” the waiter asks politely.

“Yes, sure.” Of course, I have to pretend somebody posh from Japan or Singapore. I shall leave here as soon as my clothes are dried up.

The waiter gives me a big book of menu.

The old man pays the bill. He takes his tall-huge-old umbrella and salute with his black bowler hat to me: “Good bye, young lady.”

Five days in Ireland, I am lying on bed inside of youth hostel just reading Intimacy. Sometimes I look up in the dictionary, but the more I read, the less I care the new words like Thatcherites and Terpsichorean. I don’t care what they mean. I understand the whole story completely anyway without dictionary. In that book, what the man wants from his wife is the intimacy, but his wife doesn’t give it to him. So he leaves for a new lover, for a new, passionate life. Don’t you know that all I want is be intimate with you?

In Dublin, that morning I finish reading the last page of the book, I decide go back London as quickly as possible. I am tired of travel. I am longing to see you.

I quickly pack my bag in the youth hostel and I walk out of this place where full of loud university students and hippies. Perhaps these people don’t need intimacy, or they have got it enough, or it worth nothing to them while they listen i-pod and dance in the clubs all night long.

October

A Concise Chinese English Dictionary for Lovers pic_85.jpg

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self

self (self) n. 1. distinct individuality or identity of a person or thing; 2. one’s basic nature; 3. one’s own welfare or interests.

The plane touches down at London Stansted airport. It is afternoon. Outside is raining, dim as usual. I am standing by the luggage belt, waiting for my rocksack. Has it gone to Los Angeles or Delhi or something? Everybody took their luggages but mine doesn’t come. Almost an hour later, last person took his suitcase from the belt.

I go to the “Lost Luggage” counter to report. A man apologises to me and says he will find out and contact me. Luckily, I have my passport with me.

You are not waiting meet me so I take train to home. I have nothing to bring back from my travel. I lost my Dubliners, lost my Fernando Pessoa, lost Intimacy. I also lost all the maps you gave to me. And I lost my toothbrush, lost my clothes and lost my address book. I only have the stories that happened in an East Berlin flat, in Amsterdam under the wisteria tree, on the Lido in Venice, in Faro…They stay in my heart and my skin.

London evening: everything comes back to me quickly. The slow and noisy tube, the oily fish and chip shop, the dim and crowded pubs, the raining streets with people waiting for their never-coming bus. London is such a desolate place.

The house is empty. But everywhere smells of you. And there is much mess. All your tools are on the floor. And your bags of clay and plaster are piled up in the living room. In the kitchen I find a line of dirty tea cups on the table and there is a sculpture of a bath, made from plastic, lying in the middle of the floor. It is making joke of me. Only the plants are living quietly in the garden. The fruit tree without flower stands there, still holding the peace of the garden. There are yellow leafs everywhere covering your sculptures. I pick up one fig. It is almost rotten and the juice immediately comes out. I taste it, very sweet. The seeds are sandy in my mouth. In these weeks I am absent, nature changed so much. Every plant has a different shape. And you? In these five weeks, has anything changed on you?

I turn on the radio. Weather report, as important as yesterday and tomorrow. A man talks with a very low tone like he just knew England lost football match:

“The rest of today will be overcast, with rain predicted for much of the weekend. There’s a small chance of occasional sunshine so let’s keep our fingers crossed…”

Yes. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

I wash all the tea cups, and all the dirty plates. I sweep the floor, and I let your sculptures lean against the wall. I put all your socks and smelly shirts into the washing machine. I tidy your table. Then I sit and I wait.

When the last beam of light in the sky has disappeared, you come back home with a bunch of your friends. You hug me, say hello to me, just like you would hug and hello another friend. Then everybody sits down, smoking cigarettes, having tea, talking English jokes, and laughing loudly. I never could understand jokes. And I know you hate smokers, but now you let your friends smoke everywhere in the house. Friendship. A respectful term.

I try to join in the conversation, but it is frustrating.