I’m back. Not only am I back, I’m also un-jetlagged. Never mind the fact that I feel like my anthem should be “Creep” by Radiohead.
At some point, I will get down to writing about my most awesome vacation. To do so, I will have to write many, many posts because this, gentle readers, is an extremely brief summary of what I’ve done over the past few weeks:
The Skin I Live In; Page One: Inside the New York Times; Coriolanus; Moneyball; A Dangerous Method; The Kid With A Bike; Melancholia.
Yes Prime Minister; Relatively Speaking.
London, New York, Harvard.
Postmodernism; Charles Dickens at 200; Willem de Kooning retrospective; Talk to Me: Design and Communication between People and Objects; Sum of Days; Poetry and Dream; Gerhard Richter retrospective; Creature.
New Yorker Festival, New York Film Festival, Frieze Art Fair.
The National, Owen Wilson, Wes Anderson, David Cronenberg, Michael Fassbender, Anthony Lane, Ralph Fiennes, Ben Kingsley.
Mind you, this isn’t everything I’ve seen/attended but just stuff for which I’d like to preserve legible notes (give it a couple of weeks, and what I’ve scribbled in my trusty notebook will be Greek to me). Also, this doesn’t include random fun things, like walking the High Line, devouring lemon ricotta pancakes, drinking with young Leo and Ms. Tin Roof Press and looking for bathrooms and free wi-fi in Brooklyn.
I no longer fit into my jeans, which is irrelevant considering how out-of-sync I’m feeling back in Mumbai.
I am now officially depressed.