Italian Journal

Loneliness is of no consequence. Living in New York, I need loneliness and boredom more than anything else. I’ve done absolutely nothing today except take the train to Turin and check into my hotel and go for a long run to explore the city and book my next destination. I feel like a character in a novel that somebody wrote but then put in a drawer because it was so insignificant. Even spending more time than usual on my iPad today — I don’t have a phone with me — feels loaded with banality and emptiness. The most significant thing to happen to me today is being walked in on by two different hotel maids in two different hotels. Apparently no one bothers to knock. Embarrassing, but not really. In one case, I was swiping through Tinder in my underwear; at least I wasn’t masturbating. It occurs to me that sexuality is now an ex and importable commodity, a part of tourist life, of traveling. I have no shame but no pride either. I won’t meet anyone in Turin; I was just curious, indulging in a fantasy of easy eroticism in a relatively modest place. The New Yorker had trouble recognizing that the rest of the world is not New York. Elite urbanites have created a cosmopolitan way of life that looks ugly when tried on elsewhere. Perhaps it is ugly in general. I should go outside though, and stop writing here. I suspect this journal is an excuse to stay connected to WiFi.