pace yourself

“…move at your own pace,” he said.

“`What do you mean?” I asked

“You know, take the city in on your own terms. Because this city is so big, so intense, there is so much in it, you can get caught up really quickly in everything. It’s easy to get lost. To actually live in it, you need to pace yourself.”

As much as it pains me to publicly acknowledge the wisdom of my Mancunian roommate (for fear he might start thinking himself too superior to wash dishes or take out the rubbish), there is, undeniably, truth behind his words.

There are some of us who came into this internship from already hectic lives – dissertation research in Uganda, government jobs in Australia, that very stressful springtime of undergraduation – only to be thrust into yet another crazy existence, also known as HQ madness: the GA! Obama! Snipers on the roof! Whether it’s trying to sneak into the SC meeting with our lowly brown letter badges or even if it’s the simple obstacle of being at work at 9AM pre-morning coffee, it is safe to caption our UN lives as “full.”

And it is not as if we bid good riddance to exhaustion at the end of these two months (or more). After our time here, we will once again spherically disperse – some to essay-ridden curricula, some to the heart-palpitating animalistic hunt for employment, others going back to places called home where formidable battles of work and life are waged daily.

Where does this leave us here, in our ‘right now,’ four weeks old in this indescribable and ephemeral city? What is the answer to this vehement intensity? How is your breathing? Is it as shallow as the rain puddles in Central Park last week? As steady as the rhythm of the subway as the train wheels pass each cross tie? Are you pacing yourself?

Well, go ahead, fellow transient, walk an hour on a route left untrodden by the Lonely Planet and the Michelin Guide; eat at a restaurant unsurveyed by the Zagat; spend a night making love to the lights and sounds that draw you and no one else. LIVE here. And then wake up the next morning and do the exact opposite – if you wish.

Know the empty lazy feeling of staying in bed all day in your cheap, dodgy NYC apartment. Be blasé. Feel the neutrality of buying ketchup at your corner shop in Brooklyn. Accept the naturalness of topping up your metro card at a Staten Island station. LIVE here. As you see fit.

So, in the midst of lovely rooftop drinks, wild karaoke nights, and glamorous cosmopolitan clubbing,

I offer a quieter toast – to living here and breathing deeper,

to finding the soul,

the heart,

the romance,

of this city.

At your own pace.

[written for the 3rd issue of UNITED, the autumn series of the United Nations Intern Newsletter]

daily contigencies of life

perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, the poor diet (consisting largely of takeaway curries, store-bought hummus, and the occasional wake-us-up popsicles from the ice cream truck outside the library), or the unvaried existence, but these past few weeks seem to have been marked by skewed perceptions and the breakdown of reality. we saw little of the outside world, and even then only at 45-minute increments. if they allowed food inside the cage that is the british library of economics and political science, i doubt that our exposure to air and pavement would have included much more than the walk from home to bus stop to campus and back.

yet however cruel and unsustainable the lifestyle of exam revision was, there was nevertheless a shame that came over me whenever i caught myself complaining - and i caught myself doing that more than just sometimes. how could i not be ashamed? it is difficult to study, yes, even more difficult to study and do well. but when reading about conflicts in subsaharan africa, the favelas in brazil, slums in india, the debt crises in latin america and eastern europe, how can there be any comparison between my microscopic misery and their real legitimate suffering? i am embarrassed of the thought whenever i think about it. to juxtapose my academic stress to the anguish of so many, affected by genocides, unlivable homes, corruption ruining every attempted recontruction - my ‘woes’ are almost sadly laughable. was i not born in a developing country? was i not exposed to starved families, drugs, homelessness? i should be embarrassed, i should be ashamed.

then i remembered something i heard on the bbc. a reporter asked israeli author amoz oz how he felt when writing about the conflict in the middle east. does he feel pressured to write about the daily contigencies of life in israel in the conflict? is this what he feels his narrative is set out to do?

and he said,
The daily contigencies of life in Israel and the occupied territories are not just the conflict. Life goes on. Even on the slopes of an erupting volcano, people still raise kids and plant vegetables and conduct love affairs and cheat on their income tax. They still do it. Life goes on. And one my zeals in writing novels is to devote my novels not just to the conflict, not just to the topics that fill the media and the papers but to the essential topics of love and hate and loneliness and longing and desire and death and desolation.*

not that it makes it appropriate for me to practice so little fortitude as to be overwhelmed by trifling exams, but the man’s reply places things in an even greater perspective than the one i was seeking. his reply is a reminder of the universe i am a part of – a universe that has room for both superficial distress and deep sorrow, simple joys and genuine kindness. the communities that i am now a part, that i am learning, that i am to join, that i am to serve…it’s all the same place. what the author pronounced as essential was not the conflict, not the eruption of the volcano, but love, hate, loneliness, longing, desire, death, desolation. these are the elements of which life is made of. this – life in its daily form – is what is real.

while there is the very easy mistake of blowing situations out of proportion, it is useful to be reminded that there should be no guilt attached to academic stress and the distress of the everyday. no shame in venting about the too-long hours we spend indoors cramming, leaving too-short time for social interaction. after all, the reason i am studying now is to work in the hope that other 23-year-olds can lament about their exams rather than the loss of their families, so that parents can worry about their child going off to university they feel to be too far away, like my own parents worry for me, rather than being afraid of displacement within their own nations, the land of their blood.

Appreciate, not dismiss, the everyday and the immediate world surrounding. It is, after all, the compass and inspiration to my future and my work.

[*The following interview was heard on the BBC World Service, Global News Highlights, 07 May 2009.]

coup de foudre

“In French we call it coup de foudre. A strike, that bolt, of lightning.”

***

As we sat and talked and ate our dinner, our last night in their lovely home in Versonnex, none of us – excepting Clémence, who has obviously been witness to this all her life – could ignore the beautiful warmth created by her parents. Though they sat at the opposite ends of the table, seven of us in between the places where they sat, nothing could break the attention they gave each other. Instead of distracting from it, we merely became enveloped in the tenderness that is their marriage, the honest sweetness that is Guy and Blandine.

Finishing the last bites of l’agneau rotî avec les haricots verts, I debated whether or not to ask the question in my head, afraid it might come across as far too saccharin for a post-roast lamb coversation. But of course it had to be asked.

“So how did you meet..?”

Clémence’s eyes lit up, “Well, my mom got drunk on their first date…”

“Ah, Clémence, non.” Her father shook his head. ”We met before that. She was visiting her brother, who was friends with my friend’s cousin…” At this point, I must confess that I am sure I am getting this part of the connection wrong. Sufficient to say, through mutual acquaintances, they ended up at the same party.

He continued, “Anyway, I was there, I saw her, and I knew. It was, it really was, love at first sight.”  

It caught me off-guard, hearing this kind forty-something-year-old man speak of meeting his wife in such a manner, such a genuine manner. I think he saw the look on my face, on all our faces, and he went on to say, “In French, we call it coup de foudre.  A strike, that bolt, of lightning. It’s that instant force.”

Clémence, dutifully playing the role of a daughter disgusted at her parents, rolled her eyes and feigned a gagging face.  

“Ah, Clémence, you are not ready for romance,” her father commented, shaking his head.

Blandine then continued, “I went home, and I couldn’t breathe. My mother had to help me sit down and calm me that night. She thought there was something wrong with me. Oh, but I was very much shaking, you know. My hands, everything. Oh, my mother was so worried…”

Guy began again, “I was seeing two girls at the time. But that evening, I called them both right away and told them I would no longer see them. That was it.”  He gestured with his arms, illustrating that yes, at that point, that evening, 25 years ago, he knew, after seeing Blandine for the first time, that his life before her is ended and everything is now just beginning.

This, of course, brought out a response from the rest of us, moved not just by their story but at the way they told it, with affection untainted by two and a half decades.

“Aw, that’s a great story…”
“Awesome, you were dating two girls..?!”
“That’s so rare…”  
“It’s too bad that really doesn’t happen anymore…”

Hearing that last comment, Blandine turned her head, “What do you mean it does not happen anymore? Of course it does! It happens still, you know. Of course it does.” 

Guy nodded in agreement.

I can’t help but be unsure of their certainty, my 23-year-old pessimism rearing its ugly head. Yet as we continued on with our meal, it became more and more difficult to doubt anything said by these two very generous, very astute couple. And what’s amazing is that it isn’t what they said necessarily that allowed us to be convinced, but how they seem to live the words they impart. Suspend disbelief, Jean Louise, I remember my first year university teaching assistant in English literature urging me. I believe I am outnumbered.

“So,” Clémence pressed her parents, “tell them about your first date when you drank too much…”
 

Guy and Blandine preparing a meal together

just yet another delicious lunch, this time of le baguette, le jambon français, la saucisson, les olives, et le fromage epoisse de Bourgogne

the crew

shameless

I took the 188 home today. I sat at the empty top deck, on the leftmost seat closest to the huge front windows of the bus. At the following stop, a young couple and their son joined me. The little boy looked about three. His name is Santiago.

The mother sat next to me at first, with Santiago and his father taking the two seats across the aisle. When Mamá said, “Siéntese, Santiago!” the boy stood up instead. And when she said, “Escucha,” rather than listening as he was told, he turned his head the opposite way. Clearly, the boy was in no mood to be obedient.

They switched seats, his father now sat next to me and his mamá next to him. Still, Santiago kept his head turned away from them, standing as the bus swayed, his arms crossed, his lips in a pout. Mamá took out a banana and sweetly asked him to eat. He tightened his mouth. After a few minutes of her patient persuasion, he finally took a small bite, followed by another, then just one more. Mamá asked him to finish his food, but “No lo quiero,” the boy said. I don’t want it. Papá took the rest of the fruit and finished it for his son.

Mamá cradled Santiago the rest of the ride, and Papá pointed to the clear glass in front of us. A bird flew past the window, and Papá exclaimed to him, “Mira, Santiago, un pájaro!” (Look, Santiago, a bird!) As we passed underneath a bridge with a train running on it, Mamá put her arms arms around her unwilling boy and shook his stomach playfully to sound of the train, cooing chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug. 

“Mira, Santiago, el tren!”
“Mira, Santiago, Tower Bridge!”
“Mira, Santiago…”

And I thought to myself,  look at this love. This shameless love. No matter how many times he doesn’t listen or does exactly the opposite of what is asked of him, they don’t deny him their affection. They don’t deny him the world. I think it’s because they cannot. They love Santiago so shamelessly it doesn’t matter what he does. I realize this is the love my own parents try to teach me. Shameless. Full. 

Perhaps, then, I should listen, and for once, be obedient. Love shamelessly. Care for another’s sake, without expectations of having the affection returned. Love another so fully that the love is enough to live on, to exist for, without it being conditional upon reciprocation.

The trouble is this takes humility I do not possess and courage I have not yet learned. Maybe if I practice, I could get better.

Epping Forest

Just when I thought there wouldn’t be any surprises for a while…

“Wait, what – a forest?”
“Yes,” he said. “Epping Forest.  You haven’t been?”
“I haven’t heard of it!” 
“Here.”  He signaled over to my laptop, and I stepped aside.  He leaned over the keyboard and opened up the page to Google Maps.  “You can go by tube.  Maybe get off at Woodford.  Loughton is better.  Yeah, get off at Loughton.”

Sunday morning, I woke up to a gray ceiling over the city.  It was lightly drizzling, too, just how I like it.  I had slept in my running pants and sweatshirt and socks so that I would have less steps deterring me from getting up and going to this forest I haven’t heard of.  Decided to leave my wristwatch at home.  Have no need for it today (I could look at my phone if I really had to).  It was cold and overcast and misty.  Good time to run as any.

It felt strange taking transportation to go running, but I was in no shape to run the 45 kilometers (approx. 30 miles) it would take to get there.  Too bad the Tower Hill station was closed, and too bad the Central Line was experiencing problems that delayed the trains at each stop for too long a time.  In the two hours it took to get to Loughton in Zone 6 (a ride that should have taken all but 30 minutes), the thought of turning back crossed my mind more than once.  Was this really worth it?  I could still go running without having to go that far.  Maybe I’ll come back when everything’s working as it should.  Nevertheless, I stayed on the tube, even going overground a couple of times to take buses since the train stopped running altogether at some of the stops.

Got off at Loughton.  The man at the station told me, “See that roundabout?  Take the middle road just there and keep going.  You will pass a police station on your left.  Just keep going, and you’ll be in the forest.”  So I walked to the roundabout and took the middle road, Station Road.  This road keeps going, and suddenly, I found myself at the edge of a forest in London.  

It was worth it.  Tall trees, wet ground covered in infinite leaves.  All the proper colors are there – mahogany, burgundy, tan, the red-orange and yellow shades of winter foliage, the bright and dark greens of moss.  Many of the trees are bald, but the stems are thick enough to form a canopy.  After 5 minutes of walking, I couldn’t see anything but forest anymore.  I laughed out loud by myself for a few minutes, a genuine laugh.  A secondary thought: How would I get back?  I made a mental shrug and walked deeper.  I would see a stream run across my path every so often.  This is marvelous.  It started drizzling again.  

At first, when I was sure there wasn’t anyone around, I rehearsed a couple of songs for the musical, but again I laughed when I reached the line I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood.  The Gershwins weren’t half bad sung in the forest, actually.  It seemed to fit.  After a couple of rounds of Embraceable You, I decided to run.  I ran on the pebbly pathway at first, maneuvering away from horse droppings but splashing the puddles.  After a while I veered off path.  I even slipped a couple of times while trying to climb over tree trunks that have fallen over, covered in moss and low shrubbery.  I laughed again as I found myself catching my fall my with hands, my gloves now wet.  It was still raining, but I took my hood off.  I leaped over some shallow and very narrow streams.  Once, I underestimated the depth of the water and found my feet completely submerged.  My socks were drenched and so were my feet inside.  For a moment, I thought about calling it a day, but who am I kidding?  So I walked/jogged/ran for the better part of a few hours.  I would run on muddy soil and then rinse my shoes on puddles of water.  My once-white socks now matched the ground.  I was happy, felt only good things.  It started getting dark and the rain got harder for a little bit.  I realized then I was lost, had no mobile signal, and the sun had set.  I didn’t mind.  I would have stayed that way for the whole evening if I didn’t have an early class the next day.  I walked for about a half hour more, unwillingly listening for the road that ran through the forest so that I could follow it back to town.  And wouldn’t you know – I found my way back.

I would put it in my Top Ten Sundays, if I had a Top Ten Sundays.  Coughing a little today, with a sore throat.  Completely worth it.

Hamlet

 

photo taken from www.guardian.co.uk

Royal Shakespeare Company’s Hamlet
Novello Theatre, London
09 January 2009 

David Tennant is one of those blessed actors that make you remember, if you’ve somehow forgotten, not only why Shakespeare is brilliant, but how.

Shakespeare knew how to provoke, how to make the audience laugh, how to twist the knife when it has already stabbed the heart.  Tennant played the role with the mad humanity and humor the playwright intended but did not include in the stage directions.  He read between the lines, and, if you ask me, read it right.  If one were to have watched the play without hearing the sound of words come out of his lips, one would still know what was happening.  On that stage, that body was Hamlet’s himself, not one simply borrowed from an actor.  

This  execution serves as a reminder that Hamlet was not ever supposed to be constrained within the binding of a book.  Polonius is not so superannuated unless you hear the live voice of an actor trailing away at the sentences, and Claudius (finely played by Patrick Stewart) too often comes out to be either too much of a power-hungry cretin or too calculating a malice when simply put on a 2-dimentional page.  RSC showed whole dimensions, including how horny the queen must have been after losing her husband and how repressed Ophelia must have been after absorbing advice from everyone surrounding her. 

So a round of applause to this amazing cast and crew.  I thouroughly enjoyed the show.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Human life occurs only once, and the reason we cannot determine which of our decisions are good and which bad is that in a given situation we can make only one decision; we are not granted a second, third, or fourth life in which to compare various decisions.
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
[Milan Kundera]

This book has been a literary albatross the last half of the last year.  Set in Communist Czechoslovakia, just around the time of USSR occupation, the story is surrounded by secret police, mysterious disappearances, and political coercion.  Yet the war is not the most unsettling part of Kundera’s narrative.  The most tangible pain in this story revolves around stifled and explosive passions, infidelities, devotions, naïveté, and that most agonizing feeling of all: helplessness.

From my understanding of it, the lightness Kundera writes about refers to the fact that as human beings, our lives happen only once.  Since lightness does not weigh anything, it has no matter, it does not matter.  It cannot be helped.  We are helpless to the fact that we do not get more than one chance.  What happened has happened, and it will not ever happen that way again.  It is so meaningless, it might not even have happened at all or might as well have not happened.  Our decisions will not ever come back and are therefore insignificant.  Nothing lasts.

The unbearable part of it is that we want things to last, we want things, somehow, to extend.  To matter.  To mean more.

It is the kind of idea that makes the head hurt, the heart beat just a little bit off its rhythm.  The idea is an uncomfortable one.  It means I cannot right my many wrongs, that I lack the opportunity to make something mean more than it did.  It does not matter.  It happened, and now, whatever has happened is insignificant.

Difficult to think of life this way, although in a way, it is easier as well.  Because this means that any pain, any injury acquired through accident or despair, should be insignificant enough.  Should not matter.  

Pastel on Paper.  London 2008.

One-Night Stand

One of my intensely favorite things is going places and getting lost along the way, so it isn’t completely irrational that when booking my flight to southern California for the holidays, I unpremeditatedly clicked on the flight with the longest layover. 29 hours flight from London Heathrow to LAX – a 15-hour stop at JFK Int’l.  I figured I would land at 330PM, take the subway to Manhattan for dinner and a few hours’ saunter, then head back to the airport at 3 or 4AM in time for the 630 flight to Los Angeles.  So…I did.

Took the AirTrain at Howard Beach Station, transferring at Broadway Junction to take the J to Bowery, walked a few blocks down to Spring Street and settled on Lombardi’s Pizzeria, between Mott and Mulberry Streets.  I knew I picked the right place for dinner when I heard Frank Sinatra’s As Time Goes By playing as I sat down.  I took a quick look around me (ever-so-nonchalantly) and saw three or four tables occupied by families with at least 3 children each, several businessmen (at least, men wearing pinstripe suits and solid-colored ties), and groups and groups and groups of friends.  I realize now I should have felt more awkward being there alone, but let’s face it – I was too hungry, and I lack proper judgement when I have not been fed.

According to the menu, Gennaro Lombardi brought pizza to Little Italy in 1897.  At this point, there are two things already working in its favor: 1) Gennaro is very close to gennaio, which in Italian means January, my birth month (I know, I know, I’m stretching) and 2) 1897?  So they have had about 111 years to get the pizza right – and boy, did they!

If you ever get over to Lombardi’s, I highly recommend the original Margarita Pizza.  (I would probably recommend other things I didn’t get to try, but, well, I didn’t get to try them.  Such is my blind trust in this place.)  With a very thin crust, and the perfect ratio of tomato and cheese, it was – what’s the phrase for it?  Oh yes, freakin’ delicious!  I didn’t even know you can find mozzerella like that outside of Italy!  I mean, I have heard rumors, but I didn’t actually believe them.  Well, then, there you go.  It really showed how little I know of the world.  The only thing is that the smallest pizza is 14″.  Even the bottomless pit that I am was not quite up to the challenge.  Next time, I should probably take someone with me, though I did eat 2/3 of it.  Maybe I’ll invite someone who does not eat a lot.  Or maybe someone really small, like my little cousin Calista, who is ten months old and have only started eating solid foods…

Lombardi's Pizza Margarita

Per Ebru’s recommendation, I made my way to the Christmas market on 14th street, near Union Square, walking up Broadway to see the sights.  I made mental notes of cafés open late so I could come back and seek shelter later in the evening.  The Christmas market was nice – there were lights and things to buy.  There was a “b for barack” baby onesie I would have bought for Cali, but they didn’t have her size anymore!  Darn you, politically-conscientious families (but keep up the good work)!  In any case, I did manage to haggle for a bag from Tania of Viva Zapata Bags, well below market price (though I told her I wouldn’t tell).  The material is made from the vinyl that they use to cover the seats of the Buenos Aires colectivos, the buses of the Argentinean capital.  The straps are made of the material they use for heavy window shutters.  Needless to say, I have since christened it “my travel bag”.  Rolling her eyes at my naive excitement over this little purchase, my aunt later asked me, “What, are you planning on wrestling in Morocco?”  To which I replied, “Maybe.”

14th Street Christmas Market

Gran Bajo from Viva Zapata

Strolled around a few more hours, seeing the staples, passing by ice skating rinks and Santa Clauses ready to spread the Christmas joy.  My favorite sight was that of a beautiful little blonde girl, no more than three or four, donning a pair of jeans and a knit hat, eating her chocolate ice cream in a cone as we crossed the street on Broadway & 42nd with such a steady hand it might have belonged to a girl ten years older.  I looked at her mom, just as lovely and hip as her kid, and realized she saw the amazed look in my face.  I smiled a “She’s adorable!” and she smiled a “Thank you!”.  I walked on, feeling ungraceful in my 22-year-old frame, but slightly appreciative of the fact that there are little girls who can eat messy desserts through the bustling streets of an immense city, completely unfazed and confident.  I thought, I really should live my life more like that.

Much later, it was time to put my feet up and rest.  I went back to a café I made a mental note of earlier in the evening since it was open late – Max Brenner, Chocolate by the Bald Man.  Though it really is most likely my fault, not being a chocolate enthusiast when alone, but I was just on the opposite side of blown away with this one.  I had the Mexican Spicy Hot Chocolate and was only mildly interested.  One could attribute it to the fact that it was the first time I had sat down in 7 hours.  The place was cheerful enough – I saw plenty of people enjoying their mugs and cups and saucers.  I’m not convinced but might just go back with people who actually live on chocolate (and I know more than a few of those!).

Then it was 2AM and time to head back to the airport.  

There is no lesson learned here, the paragraphs were merely informative, used as a way for me to remember.  There is one thing: I had a blast.  It was nice to be in New York for one fleeting evening and knowing that, for 15 hours, we sort of belonged to each other.

Playing the Piano

Earlier in my time as an undergrad (oh-so-many winters ago), I confided in my friend Joey, truly one of the most kind-hearted people the world over, that I catch myself at times feeling jealous, bitter, or angry – sometimes all three.  His response was, “Whenever you feel that way, play the piano.”  I’ve known Joey since primary school, and, even at the age of 10, his reasoning has always been sound.  So I would, and he was right.  Whenever things became just seemingly unbearable, the piano always won, and I felt galaxies better.

Unfortunately, the only piano available to me now resides in the basement of the LSE pub, and I can only play it weekdays between noon and five.  I came home tonight, an hour before midnight, needing a piano.  So I took on a legitimate alternative: I had a date with the cold night air.  I pulled my shoes out of hiding, put on two pairs of jogging pants, zipped up a sweatshirt, donned a pair of blue gloves and went running.

I left the house at a very slow pace,
went by Tower Bridge and the Tower of London,
ran into Sokky, the closest thing I have to a brother in this city, and his very sweet girlfriend by London Bridge (as I jogged ahead, she waved and he cried, “Be safe!  And put your hood on!”),
then I tiptoed around the couple kissing near an empty stall in what is Borough Market in the daylight, 
crossed Southwark Bridge so I can run along the North Bank of the Thames,
passed the Globe Theatre, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and Tate Modern,
jogged underneath Millenium Bridge (yes, there are a lot of bridges here), heard the one person walking on it,  
slowed down by Blackfriar Bridge,
went past LSE and King’s College,
Waterloo Bridge and the Oxo Tower,
Hungerford Bridge,
finally reaching Parliament just in time to hear Big Ben strike midnight.

I walked along Westminster Bridge, held a moment by the London Eye, and took the South Bank path back.

Seven bridges, 
eight tube stations,
a skate park,
a few museums
a handful more embracing couples,
and hundreds of red telephone booths later,
I was home. 

It would be a lie to say I ran all the way – I didn’t, especially because the most jogging I’ve done prior to tonight has been to run after the 188.  Nevertheless, it felt beautiful to breathe this city at night into my lungs, with each step breathing out any sadness in my head, my heart, my toes, and my fingertips.  I think Joey comprehended, years before I did, that the ugliest thing about  jealousy, bitterness, and anger is that they paralyse.  When he told me to play the piano, I think he was trying to get me to mobilise out of that paralysis, to move rather than stay incapacitated.  That is the key: to find the action in the ugliness of these sentiments so that one can go out and have a date with the cold night air.  To be moved.  And be beautifully inspired yet again!

 

Tower Bridge, near home, as seen from Queen’s Walk

Millenium Bridge, taken in front of Tate Modern

Saint Paul’s Cathedral, view from Southwark

The Oxo Tower, with the London Eye in the background, view from Waterloo Bridge

 

senza titolo

Another sleepless night at the Wharf.  I don’t think I’ve slept earlier than 6am this week…

I wish I could remember where it was that I heard the following lovely thought.  I recall it coming from an older gentleman, a writer of some sort.  Maybe it was a talk I attended or a conversation after a lecture?  Was it a professor somewhere?  I am sure it was in person, unless I was reading something so vividly I am mistaking it for an actual meeting.  But this is not so relevant.

His thought is that the best edition of a book to have is that with which one experienced the story for the first time.  Not the collector’s edition, not the edition with the rarest cover or the newest translation, but the copy that first introduced one to that magnificent work of fiction or non-fiction.  The book with which one created ties, as Saint-Exupéry’s fox would say.  That is the best edition of a book to have.

Maybe this is why there is a certain melancholy to my adventures thus far.  I have been travelling and living with the most wonderful people, really.  Learned an awful lot, explored deserted streets, danced to Cab Calloway, eaten terrific and not-so-terrific food – it’s been such an escapade.  

But when the walls of my mind are down, as it is when I haven’t slept more than ten hours in four days, there is an elemental truth that crawls from the back of my mind so it is right in front of my face, so it won’t be avoided.  That the original edition of my journey was you.  The blueprint of these travels were drafted with you, designed for us.  You were that with which I experienced this story for the first time.  Ours was supposed to be the best edition to have.

Kingsway & High Holborn

As I walked out of Sainsbury’s, a baguette under one arm and a box of cupcakes from Neal’s Yard in the opposite hand, I saw my bus, mostly empty, resting at a red light half a block down from the stop.  If you know the 188 to North Greenwich, you would understand what a treat this particular situation was.  The 188 hardly comes on time, if it comes at all, and is often so crowded that one would have to let it go and wait for the next one.  To capitalise on this unique opportunity, I set off at a light jog, half skipping, half walking, crossing the street, passing the Holborn tube station, to beat this notorious coach to the bus stop.

Closing in on the stop, the bus still at a rest down the road, I slowed down.  It was then that I heard a man say something, not exactly sure if he was addressing me.  I looked over his way and he looked back, repeating what I missed, “Very charming.  It was very charming to see you and just to walk behind you.  Now, of course, I see it’s even more so to walk beside you.”  

Taken aback and utterly at a loss for words, but flattered nonetheless, I replied, “Thank you.”  I might have smiled a little, I don’t quite remember.  The 188 pulls up.  I pointed to it and told him, “This is my bus!”  
He then said, “Why don’t you catch the next one and grab a cup of coffee with me?”  
I held up the bread and the box as I walked up to the bus and called out “I have a birthday to prepare for, but thank you!”  He laughed and waved goodbye.

It wasn’t a lie – I really was going home to cook for Sokky and Jenny’s birthday.  But I did have three hours before I had to start.  As I settled in on my seat, I thought, Why didn’t I just catch the next bus?  How often do I hear people, after reading an Austen novel or seeing a remake of a Shakespearean play, lament about how men don’t talk with such grace anymore?  And this stranger, rather attractive though maybe about 10-15 years my senior, was so fluent in the language of compliments at chance meetings.  

So here it is, dear sir, a proper thank you for your graceful efforts to an undeserving recipient.  You’ve made this day sweeter.