A female octopus

Colta.ru continues to publish the diary of Dmitry Volchek, journalist and writer. Other fragments for 2016 can be read here , here , here , here , here and here .

November 18

The third for the year setting Forced Entertainment , "Fat Athlete". My memory turned out the whole plot, I thought that the heroines are twins-girls, but these are boys, they are portrayed by forty-year-old actors who speak at the same time. Again, as in the “storm”, a minimum of funds, no scenery, nothing at all, and somehow they succeed.

Again, I have something like underground panic attacks, they last 20 minutes after the start of the concert or performance, then they are calmed down.

At night near the metro, the raid: eight police cars and a crowd of panka with huge plastic bottles of beer. Apparently, they went from a cross club. Only one incredible look is taken into the kutuzka: the face is covered with tattoos, blue and red, without the slightest lumen, the hair is braided into pigtails hanging on the forehead, white wooden pins, reminiscent of the lizard ridge, the jacket is hung with chains. Searched by putting on the hood. I think that he has no problems with sexual partners, everyone wants to undress him and see how far he went, modifying his body. Police cars with red and blue glimpses exactly correspond to the drawing on his cheeks.

November 19, Milan

On the plane I read the half -abandoned Arctic Summer. The Milan station looks like a fascist temple, and huge D&G advertisements - to its icons. On the square in front of the station is a continuous Bladeranner: drunken Arabs and blacks in the darkness beat bottles with a deafening ringing. In the illuminated lobby, two women in camouflage and with machine guns are fascinated at the rash migrants and do nothing. I choose a train ticket, and the guy passing by shouts: "Do not buy, today they do not check." But I cowardly press the buttons.

November 20, Turin

The fog rises above the fields, the punks on the train repeating through each word: caazzo , caazzo .

In Turin, small rain, in the Egyptian museum, so that my legs themselves lead me to the Rimerjimeno Museum, in which you can spend your whole life. Of the countless exhibits, I remember only the death of King Charles Albert (in the center of the picture, almost obscuring the dying monarch, the courtier carries a chair) and the burned model of the bandage of Professor Esmarch, which depicts how to lay a bandage wounded in different parts of the body for soldiers.

The Turin raincoat will be removed the next time in 2025. While it is hidden, there are quite a few pilgrims, and, having sketched a decorifly in front of the ark, I go for a walk along the ruins, who are inhabited by the ragans playing the ball, and then on the “Blow-up” with the preface of Gabriela Salvatoresa, which manages to mention Antonioni only once. He is frantically elegant, the clock scatters millions of sparks. "Blood-AP" I prettyly forgotten, although I watched an exhibition in Albertin last year. At first, the film seems icy, but then thaws. Following Antonioni - Otto prenger (why does Markin believe that he is better than Hitchcock?) And, finally, “Mr. Freedom » Iva Klein - Funny Beliberda about Donald Trump from 1968. I definitely begins Alzheimer: I look at Serge Gensbur and do not remember his name, but at the same time the words “Charlotte” and “lemon incest” jump. My hotel is near the station, dark personalities are snooping in the alleys, but on the contrary - a great restaurant in which there is a vegetarian menu from artichokes. When a huge black stroller is rolled up to the next table, I do not immediately understand that there is not a child, but a terrible hollow freak that makes wild sounds, wheezes, spits while he is fed from a spoon. At the table is the whole family, a freak - behind me, but on the contrary - a pretty young guy: maybe brother? On his face is suffering and embarrassment. I can imagine how the screeching monster ruined his whole short life and how many times he dreamed of nailing or poisoning him. But I also drag an invisible freak with me (although to some and noticeable). From the wine in the artichok restaurant, migraine begins in the evening.

November 21

The film about Roberto Bolla, the man-State, dancing Apollo on the ruins of Pompeii and Don Hose in the Terms of Karakalla. Not a sound about his family, hobbies, friends, lovers, generally about something outside the scene, so it seems that he was taken out in the Pentagon laboratory. At 40 it looks at 25, but it is clear that the finale is close. He managed to bless him, but not infect Nureyev. Some numbers, especially “ OPUS 100” and “canon” with twins of the bells, obscene, like the product of the Bel Ami studio. The terrible legs of the ballerinas, the joint of the thumb breaks through the skin. Men do not have this, but the muscles on the hips are ugly. Bolle, almost like Mussolini, speaks of the Italian Renaissance. On December 31, he will dance in Trieste; That's where I would like to meet 2017.

This time there is no line in the Egyptian Museum, but it is closed early, so I don’t have time: I slowly walk along the upper floors, looking at canopies, mummies and sarcophagi (there is one amazing grace of the young man, similar to Ostap Dragomoshchenko), and there is no time for the stone cats, where there are no time.

In the Palazzo Madam I go up to the tower, look at the carved altars and the string of Madonna. The ambiguous picture of Bronzino “St. Michael and the Devil”: the naked Satan is enough for a flying baby, and the red saint does not care, he has a spare. In the Museum of the Cinema I go upstairs, I go around the first floor and half of the exhibition of Has Van Saint, where the portrait of Burrose is adjacent to the portrait of Sergei Bugaev, and it is time to leave - for the most strange film of 1975 “The guy and his dog”: E*the Lyvoy telepath falls into the underground world, where sperm is pumped out of it. At night: the film of an idiot of Bonello about Sarah Winchester (he was even too lazy to go to America and take her mystery house ) and a ridiculous “park” about a girl who fell asleep on the grass and came to a black guard. I am happy, although there were a lot of elemental leproses: I hit my temple on construction forests, handed over my backpack into the wardrobe, and then I took it again because I forgot about drops, put a glass bottle in a plastic box in an ecological restaurant.

November 22

The meaningless, but short Argentine Beliberda, picked up by Jonas Mekas, a parody of his diary, and I think it's time to reconsider the Walden from the ancient NTSC video cassette. From the Lux cinema, I run up to Massimo , where they show the ugly film “We Make Coupeles” (it seems, about feminism, but maybe about something else), and in front of it is Penlev's “love life”. A sample octopus on his head has a tentacle who grabs the female by the respiratory hole and puts on himself. Copying lasts several days. Then the female is removed into the lair and hangs the curtain from the eggs on the ceiling. For a month she does not eat anything and only washes this curtain with water. Then I remember my classmate, Cyril M. named Moska. He was a real Paria, everyone was mocked over him, because he was guess, ugly and very stupid. Once, in a drawing lesson, we were given homework to decorate a kitchen cutting board. And this M. brought the board on which an elephant was drawn, twisting a huge ball. The hooligans, mocking Moska, took away the board from him, carried it to the toilet in the locker room of the gym and pissed in turn, so there was nothing left of the watercolor elephant. 20 years after graduation, I met a pug. He was in a business suit. “Do you read the Kommersant newspaper? He said. - Here they write: financial flows are coming. So - these streams go through me. " This phrase struck me so much that I remember it when I look at the female octopus. Of course, in this neat, the boards (did I take part? I don’t remember) was lurking eroticism, a foreboding of the golden rains of our maturity, and in general there was excessiveness, which was embarrassed. Ostrovsky, nicknamed the District, who made mathematical successes, but then began to trade frozen vegetables. Which of these worthless people is still alive?

After the abstruse film about feminism, I go to the most popular festival restaurant, and when I return, slightly underperse, at the Piazza Statut to look at the Lucifer monument, SMS comes from Luftanza that my flight from Munich to Prague is canceled due to the strike. I can’t get through the phone (for some reason to London), but I'm not particularly trying. The hillock on which the elegant fallen angel with a pen sits in his hand is strewn with the bodies of naked men, and, as is said in the Satanic guidebook, Lucifer points to the half -gripped hatch, where the entrance to the underworld is located.

I decide to submit to fate and do nothing: I’ll go to Munich on the villa of a thing, and there whatever happens there. I watch two films, without which I could live: about the deratization of the Baltimore (the stunning story of a secular lady, which was obsessed with the reconstruction of crime sites and ordered stage boxes with doused dolls and the smallest details of the utensils) and the new film with the diamonds, not as terrible, although it is also not a god of Krekom. Open from the prison). I go into the first pizzeria in the hotel. I am inexplicably happy, I like everything, although there is lousy rain, and pizza is so -so. The last film is “Strawberry Statement” about the unrest at the University of San Francisco in 1968, amazingly brave, students of p ** boiling police officers, who are called exclusively “Pigs” , full of naked bodies, circles of LSD, portraits of Che and Mao. It ends with the entire Battle-Balet. The protagonist has a blond with glasses, the appearance of the victim, and I think that his life ended quickly and badly, but no - he is still withdrawn.

The mood is complete delight, as is usually the case when you watch five films per day.

November 23, Munich

I wake up at 6, I go out into the darkness under the pouring rain, only the raspberry sign of the bar shines. I buy two chocolate croissants and a bus ticket to the airport; From the feeling that the huge hand of Allah holds me and strokes me, outbreaks of delight.

If my Prague flight had not been canceled, I would still be late for him, because the plane from Turin flew 40 minutes later. There is no thin one without good! Munich has grandiose weather, the sun and red Christmas balls. I walk from the station on the Principalgentenstrasse to Villa Franz von Sile. Here is the exhibition of Yana Torop, and best of all the picture that I had already seen at Boyans: youth with red vessels crawling from underground skulls. And one more, from a private collection: a coal forest with a swan in a pond. The boudoir of the background itself is a luxurious thing, I only now notice that a frog and a guinea pig are attended at the feet of Orpheus. I think that the stop in Munich was invented by the highest force only so that I looked at Torop and Orpheus.

Lena leads me to an Italian restaurant, I take Minestron. Her ex -husband, who suffered from an unknown disease like Parkinson, died two weeks ago. Sasha never married. S. passed six chemotherapies, and there is almost no hope. We drink a lot of magnificent white wine. We go to the tobacco shop, where there is no menthol tobacco that Andrei needs. My Internet is cut down for an incomprehensible reason, a taxi is waiting not where we are waiting for it. We are going past the English park, the weather is beautiful, I want to stop a taxi, go for a walk and never return home. I am sure that we will be late at the bus station, but we come on time. On the bus I am the only passenger, although almost all tickets were sold on the site. Luftansa sends an SMS so that I immediately went on the plane: the landing is either shifted or brought closer. In five hours of journey I do not have time for absolutely anything, I only read Facebook. We come exactly so that I have managed to at the French institute where the Last Metro is going on. On the dark street of Opletalov, a detachment of pouted slippers is dumped from the entrance, and last year’s Alexander among them. He does not see me, and if he had seen, he would not have found out, even Fucking John . The Last Metro, which I watched 30 years ago, is a failed film: both Denev and Depardieu play ugly, the decorations are terrible, the dialogs are cardboard, how could this happen?

Prague looks terrible: there are pimps (or dragdilers?) In rows on Vaclavak, blocking the passage. The Soviet crawls out from the whitewashing, in the fall this is not at all hidden.

November 24

A striking story: the book of Donald Windem came from the Bukinist, and from it the letter of the 1949, the Hollywood screenwriter Richard Nixon (through CK ), came out with a proposal to sell his novel for the film adaptation. It is written on the back of the booklet of the first exhibition of Joseph Cornell in New York. Could this be an accident? Probably a message from the other world that this book needs to be published. But I no longer have any strength. At a concert in a public house, while the wonderful “Til Ulenspiegel” was played, there was a feeling that they had inserted a jack in his mouth and put pressure on the palate, and his head could break away from the spine and fall to the floor, as if in a gigne. When Bartok's violin concert begins, it becomes easier, in the intermission I drink champagne and I listen to a pathetic symphony without a jack in my mouth. I recall Punk Pig from the AU group, with which I drank port 35 years ago. Could I then imagine that I would listen to Tchaikovsky in the Philharmonic and enjoy it?

November 25

I find in New Zealand the great -grandson of the Russian holy, tortured by the Communists. To know when I die! If soon, then you could go on a trip around the world for a year with a stop in Wellington. And if after 40 years?

November 26

In the French center, a Czech film critic in harsh glasses, provincial and self -confident, is a mournfully retelling his biography, speaks his biography in front of the film. With a French translation provided by a tired Jew, this is stretched for half an hour. It seems that everything is already, but then Anna Kareninova’s mysterious woman is invited to the stage. I thought it was the oldest old woman, because she supplied with subtitles all films in all languages ​​from about 1965, but she was 60 years old, no more. She looks strange, like a masterfully made wax figure. It turns out that she translated the collected works of Selin, that is, she turned out to be a double of Marusi Klimova. Selina plays Denis Lavan, and this is an “interview with Professor Y ”, on the contrary, where Professor Milton Hindus was bred by a giant hero, and Celine is a crazy dwarf. It is amazing that Lucett Detesh is still alive, she is already in a hundred. In the film, she offers Hindus to swim in the bath, from which she had just crawled out.

Fidel Castro died, 90 years old. More recently, I looked at him, young, in the cinema and did not see anything good.

November 27, London - Dallas

The book of verses by Vasya Kondratiev was published, he died almost 20 years ago, and I don’t know why alive. Could drown in 1999 at Madagascar, leaving the descendants only of the book “Talking Tulip”. And if the car that Kondratyev pushed me in 1991 turned out to be a truck, I would have lived a cripple for 20 years, with a steel plate in my head, like a Celine. I think about Vasina Death: was he immediately died or suffered? Happy who falls upside down.

I could not get rid of the fear that they would begin to find fault with me because an American visa is in an expired passport, but this does not care. Trump wants to appoint a Secretary of State, an ancient person from the 80s, a Putinist. Everything rolls to Tartarar.

Yesterday I forgot to register on the plane, I did it only in the evening, when there was only one free place in the front row, where screeching children were always planted. He knew in advance what was waiting for me, and was not mistaken: a baby arises next to me. This is a girl, a future beauty, and she rarely squeals. I re -read the layout of the magazine, full of errors.

At the airport, you need to go through control through a machine, which at first does not want to distinguish between prints of my fingers, and then gives me the coupon of another person, with American citizenship. Everything can be settled, no one cares about me.

The chances of being in the Dallas Museum are insignificant before closing, but we have time, and we have enough hours to look at the sheaves of Van Gogh, the fox Courbet, the cloud of Matisse, the Self -portrait of Churchill in the form of a pig, the pedophilic bath of Max Zilberman, the pictures of young Mondrian and the famous Texas landscape “Three Crosses”.

The night falls to Dallas, and we spend it in Fort Werth, a faceless hotel with gigantic beds and a tolerable Mexican restaurant.

November 28, corps Christ

While I eat porridge with melons, Fox TV channel promises that the thunderstorm will stop soon and the afternoon will be sunny. So it happens. On the way to Austin, landscapes are dull, only the Lone Star Cowboy Church is good. There are almost no posters with Trump, on the remaining there are signs with gratitude voting. But there is a huge Czech roadside restaurant, advertising knedliki. In Austin, we spend two hours on buying a card for my phone, Bochenkov glasses and meaningless souvenirs. But we find a saloon where they serve porridge with river cancers. The Capitol in Austin is not as luxurious as in De-Moin, but in the lobby there is a portrait of Bush Jr., and on the floor, incomprehensibly playful mosaics with symbols resembling a “cremaster” screensaver are laid out on the floor. A gray guide asks what presidents Texas gave rise to, everyone knows only Bush; It turns out that Eisenhower also. I climb the stairs, and again it becomes bad. У Боченкова плохи дела, он размышляет о самоубийстве, но параллельно думает о поездке на «Документу», Венецианскую биеннале, а также на мыс Бесов Нос.

К вечеру добираемся до Корпус-Кристи. Наша гостиница — напротив авианосца «Лексингтон» по прозвищу «голубой призрак». Владелица отеля Наталья 17 лет назад приехала из Одессы. Туристов нет. Ужинаем в пустом ресторане: catch of the day с тушеной окрой. От пива Corona не болит голова. Ходим по молу, глядя на голубой призрак, по пустому пляжу, похожему на картину Танги.

29 ноября, Пирсолл

Умер Леонид Баткин. Три месяца назад я говорил с ним по скайпу, он призывал голосовать за Явлинского, надеялся, что в Думе будет либеральная фракция, а на заднем плане старуха повторяла: «О Господи, о Господи». И вот ни Явлинского нет в Думе, ни фракции, а вместо них пришла смерть.

Утро на променаде. На яхтах восседают отважные пеликаны. У белого столба — бронзовая певица Селена, убитая председателем своего фан-клуба, я читал о ее судьбе 300 лет назад в National Enquirer .

За завтраком трудолюбивая Наталья объясняет, почему она голосовала за Трампа. «17 лет назад я приехала и думаю: как эта страна работает? Половина сидит на велфере, на фудстемпах, а мы трудимся за них. Сейчас все всколыхнулось, все пошло не по плану». В телевизоре (разумеется, Fox ) объясняют, как Трамп выбирает госсекретаря. Все его люди — из прошлого. Дряхлый Джулиани, генерал Петреус, Митт Ромни. Кажется, Рорабейкера все-таки списали.

Поднимаемся на авианосец «Лексингтон». Внутри уныние переборок, и я представляю, как эти матросы (их тут было 3500 человек) искали укромное место, чтобы потискать пригожего товарища. Тяжела была жизнь без Гриндра (где мне пишут 122-килограммовые мексиканцы). «Лексингтон» х*ячил японцев в наказание за Перл-Харбор. На верхней палубе — красивые маленькие самолетики, несущие желтую смерть ( death to the yellow peril ).

Обедаем в городе Пирсолл, где в ар-деко-кинотеатре Oak идут «Звездные войны», а на тротуаре стоит афиша «Если у вас не осталось волос, у нас имеются шляпы». Дальше все получается криво: на озере Амистад нет лодок, чтобы доплыть до пещеры Пантеры, делать совершенно нечего, и мы идем в местный музей, куда перетащили могилу судьи Роя Бина, который был влюблен в актрису Лили Лэнгтри, уговорил ее приехать, она приехала, а он умер. Я сдуру заказал дурацкий мотель в плохом районе, и мы не можем найти ресторан, всюду кошмарный фастфуд, уже у дверей пахнет жареными трупами. Настроение изрядно портится, и я начинаю думать, что Америка отнюдь не так хороша, как мне казалось. Кругом уродливые люди-подушки. Остается купить в супермаркете суши и пиво.

30 ноября, Марфа

Все идет не так: парк с наскальными рисунками, которые я так хотел посмотреть, закрыт на охоту. Проклятье! Приходится ехать дальше по тревожной дороге (полицейские доброжелательно проверяют паспорта) вдоль мексиканской границы. В городе Лэнгтри, где вершил правосудие Рой Бин, обнаруживаем, что кончается бензин. Ближайшая заправка в 60 милях. Старушка в музее Роя Бина решает нам помочь и бесплатно дарит несколько галлонов. Их едва хватает до городка Сандерсон, где нас обслуживает официантка с настоящим пистолетом на поясе. Долго едем по парку Биг-Бенд — бледная тень Аризоны, хотя на закате красиво. В Марфу приезжаем уже в темноте, в пустом доме (бывшее паровозное депо) — адский холод. Оказываемся в непомерно шикарном ресторане, где подают салат из граната и сорбе на серебряной жаровне. В курильнице дымят благовония, а кирпичи сделаны африканскими женщинами из навоза. Ночью так холодно, что постоянно хочется ссать. В Гриндре пристают мексиканские чудовища. Менеджер депо, Джимми, всю ночь не спит: судя по бормотанию со второго этажа, слушает радио. За окном романтично гудят поезда.

December 1

Просыпаюсь от холода. Сегодня 69 лет со дня смерти Кроули. У нас экскурсия в музей Дональда Джадда на целый день. Это военный городок, в двух огромных ангарах когда-то трудились немецкие военнопленные, а теперь выставлены 100 скульптур из алюминия, напоминающие детали для магазина «Итальянские кухни». В бараках остались надписи на немецком, так что все это похоже на концлагерь. С нами еще девять любителей искусств. Один барак отдан под воспоминания о советском детстве Ильи Кабакова, в пыли валяется книга Серафимовича «Железный поток». Рядом огромная подкова Олденбурга, тень от которой на полчаса превращается в серп и молот. В шести бараках инсталлированы разноцветные трубки Дэна Флавина, и мы должны входить и выходить 12 раз, это что-то вроде двенадцати станций Креста. Среди раздавленных автомобилей Джона Чемберлена показывают его фильм «Secret Life of Hernando Cortez» с Тейлором Мидом и Ультра Вайолет, я его никогда не видел, но нет времени смотреть. Красивая инсталляция Роберта Ирвина, разделившего коридоры больницы марлевыми ширмами, так что каждое окно превращается в картину. Экскурсовод — иссушенная искусством старуха из Нью-Йорка — расспрашивает меня про европейскую жизнь. Кружится голова, несколько раз во время экскурсии кажется, что упаду в обморок, и становится лучше, только когда мы выпиваем в кафе, которое держит изнуренная швейцарская лесбиянка, коктейль из конопляного протеина. Обедаем не у нее, а у обкуренных парней, которые готовят фалафель в трейлере. До заката разглядываем бетонные блоки в полях, ужинаем в главной городской гостинице, где у стойки бара заседают элегантные ковбои в шляпах, а потом едем смотреть в придорожный павильон на Marfa l ights . Смотровая площадка оборудована роскошно. Зрители горланят и тычут пальцами во тьму полей, где и в самом деле что-то мигает. Рядом с нами стоит раскормленный лилипут с подзорной трубой.

2 декабря, Сан-Антонио

Еду на автобусе возле Большого театра, мимо гостиницы «Москва», и вдруг в нас на полной скорости врезается грузовик. Просыпаюсь в ужасе.

Решаем с третьей попытки попасть в парк наскальных рисунков, у нас полно времени. С утра едем смотреть на инсталляцию Prada Marfa — бутик-мираж в пустыне. С печальными стонами проносятся поезда. Заходим на две бессмысленные выставки в Марфе: интерактивный шопинг, тени от треугольников, контактные линзы с надписями. В университетском городе Альпайн в каждой витрине висят фотографии пропавшей в октябре студентки по имени Зузу Верк (полиция подозревает бойфренда). Не знаю, как так получается, но я совершенно забываю о времени, и, когда мы выходим из мексиканского ресторана, выясняется, что на экскурсию в парк опаздываем, а без экскурсовода смотреть наскальные рисунки запрещено. Мы опоздали всего на 15 минут, но шансов нет. I am devastated . Уезжаем в Сан-Антонио. В этом городе, где находится компьютерный центр кампании Трампа, здания искусно подсвечиваются, в исполинском «Мариотте» горят почти все окна, а главное развлечение аборигенов — катание на огромных надувных лодках по реке, уходящей под шопинг-мол. Заказываю в ресторане по ошибке бургер с мясом вместо вегетарианского и отдаю свою печальную котлету Боченкову. Смысла было и так немного, теперь не осталось совсем. Меня преследует запах пива Corona , мы слишком много его пьем.

3 декабря, Хьюстон

Всю ночь дождь. Американцы запускают айсберги во все напитки, и у меня болит горло от мерзкого льда. На завтрак поедаем жареного сома. Чтобы попасть в Аламо, нужно выдержать очередь на парковку, и я не могу решить, нужно ли нам это вообще, но, наверное, нужно, потому что тут можно купить идиотские сувениры, разобраться в техасской истории и посмотреть на сокровища героев Войны за независимость: чашу для бритья, которую использовал герой, и компотницу героини.

Музей Сан-Антонио; грандиозная коллекция латиноамериканской живописи: троица с одинаковыми бородатыми лицами, изображение вегетарианца — святого Николаса де Толентино, оживившего зажаренную куропатку, Иосиф с младенцем на руках, витрина Форреста Бесса, который разрезал себе промежность, чтобы стать божественным гермафродитом.

Под ужасным ливнем (вспоминаю вчерашний сон и думаю о гибели) приезжаем в Хьюстон, и он нравится мне с первого взгляда: верхушки небоскребов в тумане словно стерты ластиком. Rothko C hapel похожа на сцену из «Твин Пикс»: черные панно в фиолетовых окантовках, деревянные скамьи и непонятно откуда исходящий гул. На первом ряду медитирует бритый старик. Музей Сая Твомбли совсем пустой, и я, счастливый, хожу по нему кругами, разглядывая розу отчаяния и пруд Рильке. Рядом — грандиозное здание Menil C ollection с отличным отделом сюрреализма, африканскими масками, полинезийскими идолами. В Америке всё в полтора раза больше европейского — машины, обеды, задницы, — и картины европейских художников тоже слишком большие: Клее и Миро размером с «Девятый вал», бронзовые скульптуры Магритта — я таких вообще не видел. Очень хороший Виктор Браунер, рисунки Пикассо, особенно голый человек, ведущий быка на бойню. В кинозале показывают с пленки фильм Уорхола «Закат»: Нико заунывно читает непонятно чьи стихи о белом-белом человеке, а на экране садится солнце.

В гостинице нам советуют мексиканский ресторан, там нет мест, просят подождать полчаса, мы пытаемся уйти, испуганная хостесс догоняет и предлагает пятиместный стол. Вся эта система с непристойным желанием официанта понравиться клиентам в обмен на чаевые меня раздражает, потому что я просто хочу есть, а не вступать в отношения. Америка нравится мне не так пылко, как прежде. И то, что здесь никто не ходит пешком, тоже раздражает: возвращаемся, виляя среди кустов, по мокрому тротуару, на который уже несколько десятилетий не ступала нога человека.

To be continued.