My old flame, I can't even think of his name . . . oh wait . . . it's Gold Stone Noodle House.

There aren't many things I miss about Canada, friends and family aside, although even they are doing a relatively good job of visiting; it feels like there are people here more weekends than not, although that's probably my afore-mentioned lack of Me time speaking rather than reality. One thing I do miss is hot sunny summers, but I should suck that up because at least this way I don't get life-threatening winters (but oh, I miss the sun).

The other thing I miss is the Gold Stone Noodle House. I would say I miss Chinese food in general - I do - it sucks as much in Belgium as it sucked in France and Italy (actually Italy wasn't so bad, there was one place in Milan and one place in Turin I was pretty fond of). But emotionally, what I really, really miss is the Gold Stone.

I miss their chicken and chinese mushroom chow mein, to be specific. I miss it to madness. The noodles were so crispy around the dish and so tender in the middle, and it wasn't too greasy though it was absolutely unwholesome. Noodles here are always too limp or greasy, or else the restaurants are Thai and use peanut oil. And the chinese mushroom - I can still remember my first chinese mushroom, which coincidentally I had at the Gold Stone in a chicken and chinese mushroom chow mein. I can remember how springy and exciting it was, how rich the taste and texture . . .

I'd only started eating non-hallucinatory mushrooms at all about six months before that when I'd been doing my third year in Florence because I'd thought they were gross looking. I was such a fool. I knew that already before I had my first Chinese mushroom, and after I had my first Chinese mushroom I became even more devoted to making up for the first 20 years of my life I'd wasted not eating non-hallucinatory mushrooms. Fuck me, it was good. I could really work myself up into tears over how I don't have the Gold Stone a five minute bike ride away anymore, so time to go to work.

L'enfer, c'est les autres

Saw Gilda last night after a busy weekend. It was pretty good, in a French music kind of way. The key to liking French music is to ignore the shitty singing and concentrate on the nice lyrics, and the key to enjoying classic noir is to ignore the plotholes and concentrate on how they talked about sex when the Production Code tried to forbid them to. Rita Hayworth was fucking hot. Holy, as they say, shit.

Looking forward to the trip to Carcassonne on Wednesday like a madwoman. Not just to the possibility of enjoying their interminable heatwave after summer flits away from Belgium in favour of more shitty, shitty rain and cold, not just to the wedding and the attendant drinking and fun times, not just to not working for four days in a row.

Franky what's doing it for me this morning is the prospect of my solo journey itself. Something like 20 hours altogether on trains, all by myself. I know that sounds like lots, and it is, but it's cheaper and more environmentally nice than the plane, which would probably end up taking something close to the same amount time, what with getting out to Charleroi, waiting around in a fucking aeroport, baggage, blah blah blah.

And the prospect of all those hours ALL TO MYSELF (though I will be spending six or so of them trying to sleep on a couchette) is so nice. I have exciting books to read. Only two though. I need at least two more. Maybe four more, because I'm hoping to escape the wedding a bit there and go read on the beach for the Friday. Oh boy oh boy. Good lord. How did personal time get this sort of premium on it, that I'm waiting with trembling anticipation to a train trip by myself? How the fuck am I going to cope when I have children?