London Encounters

One year ago, I was just beginning my study abroad in London. My heart is aching for this dear city. I have decided to repost some of my writings from the Lois in London blog, in memory of this wonderful experience and in celebration of wonderful city. Enjoy.

(1) 

I see the instrument case first. Musician, I think. Violin or viola.

Casually dressed in all black. Heavy laden with case and backpack (travelling?) The slim and sprightly young man takes his place in the crowded carriage, carefully standing as one does when riding the tube with too much baggage. Balancing his instrument, his backpack, his light frame.

The woman next to me exits the train at the next stop. I wonder if the man will attempt the complicated feat of sitting down.

He does. Maneuvering toward me, he takes the empty seat--adjusting his backpack and placing the instrument between his knees. Seated and safe, the musician no longer interests me. I return to reading.

"This is Finsbury Park..."

Our arrival at the next station stirs me from my reading reverie. When I look up, I see the young man's fingers lightly holding his instrument in place. Keeping it safe from the Underground's potential dangers. As his elegant fingertips brush the case's black exterior, I recognize the tender yet protective touch: the subtle contact between musician and instrument.

Suddenly, I am keenly aware of my elbow next to his. So accustomed to the passing touch of a fellow tube rider, I had yet to notice our proximity. The contact is electrifying.

I wish for bared arms. Elbow to elbow. Skin to skin. Human to human.

How marvelous to be connected with another life, even for a passing moment.

When the man alights at King's Cross St. Pancras (Yes, he must be travelling), his presence lingers in the empty seat.

Another passenger sits down.

(2)

In my jacket pocket, the two pounds jingle in anticipation as I squeeze through the Underground ticket turnstile. My damp umbrella is ready, perfectly poised for crossing the station threshold into a blustery April shower. Hope the weather hasn't driven him away. I turn onto the sidewalk of High Holborn, eagerly searching for the familiar fruit vendor.

There. An avocado. Are avocados really fruit?
Another blink reveals the entirety of my neighborhood fruit stand. Blue umbrellas shelter the apples satsumas berries grapes avocados bananas, but the stall appears unguarded.

Where is h... There.

Small-framed and wiry, the greying merchant speaks into the window of a paused cab. His right hand gestures enthusiastically; the same fingertips hold the dying end of cigarette. Red hot ash falls in the wind.

Giving directions? I dismiss my first conjecture. Stupid, it's a taxi. An old friend? I envision their daily encounter--the good morning's and how's the wife's, the occasional wave through the car window when the light is green or the taxi holds a passenger. Fruit drive-thru? "Hello, may I take your order?" "I'd like an avocado, four apples, and a carton of raspberries."

I linger. The light turns green. He turns.

At the vendor's reappearance, I snap out of my sidewalk daydreams and try to remember my fruit request. Patient eyes meet my shy glance. The cigarette is put out.

"I'd like four of the satsumas."Apples, don't forget the apples.
Aged yet nimble fingers instantaneously select and bag four orange globes ("One pound") before I can continue with,

"Oh, and can I get four apples as well?"

"Sweet or sharp, love?" Love. My thoughts linger on the form of address, treasuring the sound of my fruit man's striking accent and friendly manner. I smile brightly, unconsciously.

"Sweet, please."

With the same rapidity, he places four Royal Gala apples into a blue plastic bag with the brown-bagged satsuma parcel.

I retrieve the prepared two pounds from my right pocket. In the exchange--blue bag for coins--my hand brushes his. Contact. "Ta, love."

Ta, love.
I thank him warmly, my face beaming.

"Thank you very much." And not just for the fruit. 

(3)

I mosey through Hyde Park, following the lake aimlessly. Blissfully. It's sunny and I am in London. Walking along the Serpentine. My right hand fidgets with a five pence coin. The closest thing I have to a shilling. 

"Hello lady. How are you?"

Is he? Yes. He is speaking to me.

I stop walking and smile warmly. "Hello!"

Never did learn the "don't speak to strangers" rule. Neatly dressed and carrying a satchel bag in his left hand. Short greying hair. Foreign. Maybe a bit lost.

"Do you know how to get to Victoria Coach Station from here?"

I answer vaguely, not sure of the answer. Hyde Park Tube Station is over that way. Maybe keep heading straight ahead. I think.

We begin walking in the same direction, talking as strangers do.

Are you British? No I'm American. He's Iranian and lives in southwest England.
Why are you in London? I'm a student. He's visiting a friend.
How long have you been in the city? Two months. His first visit, just for the day.
Do you like it? Yes, I love it here. So does he. We could both see ourselves living in London.

We talk about my courses. His uncle in Detroit. I want to be a librarian. I'm always telling strangers that I want to be a librarian. He wants to practice his English.

I say I'm turning left when we come to the end of Serpentine Road. Though he's friendly and the conversation pleasant, (I bet he can't tell how old I am. How young I am.) I am on guard. Wary.

We share a warm goodbye. Shaking my hand, he says, "My name is Amin."

"I'm Lois. It was lovely to meet you." And I do mean it.

My feet follow a path that veers back toward the Serpentine. Our conversation had led me farther than I had meant to travel. No matter, maybe I'll get an ice cream. 

I rejoice in this small interaction. Seven billion people on this earth and I've just met another--made contact. How many more? While trying to make sense of the Cavalry Memorial (is that statue supposed to be St. George trampling a dragon?), I dwell on my secret life goal of making contact with as many human lives as possible.

Until I hear my name. "Louis, Louis." Well, it's supposed to be my name. Amin comes running up behind me. "I have a hard question to ask you!"

Oh dear.

"Can I have your phone number?"

And this, dear friends, is an excellent reason not to have a cell phone. "I don't have one, sorry."

"What about Facebook? Email?"

My hesitation lasts a moment too long; he senses my unease. In broken English, he rambles about how he is bad at this, how his friends say he is too forward, how I am such a nice American girl, how he likes me very much. He stops and finally asks.

How old are you? Nineteen. He is thirty-four.

Penny drops. But it does not deter him from asking the real "hard question."

"You are young. But I want for us to talk more and you to help me with my English. For you to teach me. Then we can be friends and one day get married, yes?"

Oh. Nervous laughter. A fidgety smile. He is waiting for my response.

"Um.. I don't know." You don't know? He wants to marry you and you "don't know?" Oh honestly. 
As I mentally berate myself (too nice get a backbone), Amin fishes around for a scrap of paper. Taking out a pen, he writes his name down on a card. I am to look him up on Facebook. Add him as a friend. And that's A-m-i-n and M-b-zed.
"If you don't add me, that's okay. If you do, I will be very very happy."

Nodding an okay, I take his card. We shake hands for an extraordinary length of time; nice to meet you's and have a good day's are exchanged. And then I finally turn to go, eager to avoid any further engagement. I feel like laughing.

I buy an ice cream at the nearest cafe.

(4)

Wednesday: In my excitement, I forget to say goodbye to 6 Great James Street. My final exam turned in, I rush out of the classroom and into the afternoon sunlight. Several of my classmates are lingering on the corner of Great James St. and Theobald's Road. Next to the Cafe Nero.

On our way back to Holborn Station, we discuss Art & Architecture exam. Who sculpted the man and python statue? Lord Layton. About what time period was Stonehenge constructed? Around 2000 BC? We're unsure. How does this older photograph of Trafalgar Square differ from how it appears today? There are significantly less tourists in the older picture. Cheeky. We are lighthearted and amiable and done. Class finished.

We part ways at the station, exchanging see-you-tomorrows and good-luck-with-that-last-paper. Ticket through the barrier, a descending escalator toward the Piccadilly line. I am swept up in the rhythm of the underground.

I forget to say goodbye.

Thursday: We begin to trickle out of the Fentiman Arms in groups of two or three. Tom, Jessica, and Mike have already said goodbye, leaving Peter Professor Peter, not to be confused with tall Peter to finish the end-of-term party with us.

Everyone hugs. This is the last day of the term and tomorrow we disperse. Some return to Seattle, some remain in England, and some continue travelling throughout Europe. I remember the anxiety I experienced at the beginning of the trip. Would I make friends? Would we get along? How would the group interact? My worries seem silly now; I am completely attached to these people.

Stephanie and I walk back to Oval Station. It's past eleven yes we'll still make the tube but the evening is warm and still. My tender parting with Peter professor is running through my head. "Remember Lois, if you learn anything from me, remember that it is more important to be happy than successful." I try to memorize the evening.

I've said more goodbyes than I can count.

Friday: As I near Piccadilly Circus, I realize that this will be the last time I see Central London. At least for now. My pace slackens as I try to absorb the city, the tourists, the Londoners, the Nash buildings, the Jubilee preparations, the flags, the illuminated signs. 

Too quickly, I reach the stairs leading down to the Underground. I pause and take one last glimpse of the city my home away from home. I take the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Reluctantly.

Goodbye London. Until next time.