Part 4: Brixton
Disclaimer: A Curve Across The Pond has nothing to do with Los Angeles, other than the fact that it is written by an Anjealeno.
The Chelsea goal had sent the room into a palpable funk.
Palpable. Heat rises. Surrounded by Arsenal jerseys here. Drizzle outside. Room gets warmer. I go for a beer. They have Red Stripe™ on tap here. Tap! ThatÂ´s a rarity. There are some arguably skeevy places to watch a match in the south of London and IÂ´d somehow picked the one with the Stripe on tap. Natch. Watering holes like GrAsshopper and Bar Costena have a tendency to condition one for all manner of life. As such I was, for the most part, in my element.
But back to my shins. Was my hotel in fact built by hobbits, for hobbits? Bloomsbury had been treating me right…a visit to the Horse Hospital … the ominous reading room @ British Museum…overly extravagant consumption at the local socialist bookstore…said goodness aside, a stairway mishap on one of said hotelÂ´s tossing (bleeding? blooding?) hobbit staircases Saturday eve had offered both shins massive bruises and swelling. Pulsing. Flesh wounds that would carry into España and beyond. I could already tell.
The match ends one to one and the crowd disperses into the drizzle.
España! Jesuchristo . . . Y ahora?