I took the Underground into town, found a youth hostel to drop my stuff, and headed for Leicester square. The plays on Sunday are pretty limited, but the half-price ticket booth had seats to The Reduced Shakespeare Company's "The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged)".
I had time to watch a break-dancing busker and send a few e-mails from a SoHo internet cafe. Then I found Balans, a restaurant some of Dafydd's friends had recommended a night or two before. The eggs benedict and the atmosphere were, as promised, savory. The neon pencils Kristi gave me years ago were just the right bright colors for the scene and my mood. I sat at my front-window table and sketched the scene between bites and gulps.
The play was riotous. At intermission I resisted the urge to get espresso or beer, on the realization that the buzz of this whole trip was heady enough. After the play I walked for an hour or so, looking for a good place to draw. I found it in the Rat & Parrot where I took a corner table upstairs and pulled out my paper and paints.
There was some subtle difference that assured me that somehow sitting alone in a pub in SoHo with a pint of bitter and painting pictures was very different from anything I could do at home. But at the same time, I wondered why I never did this in Boulder. Perhaps that would change after this trip.
What was the difference? What inspired such an evening? The solitude, I suppose. When with someone or a group, there seems to be a drive to consume or act at all times: coffee, dinner, dessert, beers; skiing, hiking, biking, doing something. I guess this is just an instinct in social situations to fill all silences before they become uncomfortable silences; if your mouth ain't talkin', better fill it up with something. Now that I was truly alone, I was perfectly comfortable with sitting and observing. No need for the nervous habits we all take on in company. It was good.
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