Day one of London.
I’m lying on my bed in the Guesthouse of the Black Lion, collecting my thoughts from yesterday before they flit away into obscurity. The street is awake, but I am barely so. The title of this blog post (a reference to Eliot’s “Preludes”) immediately came to mind when I awoke, curiously looking around and wondering why the room seemed unfamiliar. Waking up in a strange place is never very disconcerting to me, but always evokes a sensation of being two steps behind on a joke, and that if only I’d gather my wits quickly I’d understand the humor the world was attempting.
Last night, I walked along the streets of West Hampstead, empty at 11pm (I’ll never quite get used to how early close up here). There are few things as thought provoking as an empty, quiet street, especially one you are unfamiliar with. Just twenty hours ago, I was in Philadelphia thinking about being here, and then, it was no longer a thought about it being London, “for there she was.” It was a pleasant meditation, one that probably doesn’t translate well here.
The flight was as most flights are. I’m rarely filled with a love of my fellow man after being stuck in an uncomfortable seat for five hours, head lolled to one side, trying to catch a few fitful Z’s between the crying children and slamming lavatory doors. I had a layover in Toronto for a few hours. I’m not sure why, but flying over lake Erie as we landed in the city filled me with a sense of intense wanderlust and longing, humming the “Edmund Fitzgerald” as I always do when I see one of the Great Lakes, even the relatively tiny ones. Waiting for my transfer, I managed to watch the Redbull vs.Toronto match before my transfer, and catch up on some email. Air Canada, however, was a pleasure to fly, and the flight went without a hitch, I’m happy to say.
Standing in line at customs, however, I spotted a young, short woman with a pinched, dissatisfied face that I thought I recognized. In a flash, irrationally, I thought that perhaps the customs official that gave me such trouble last time I processed had transferred to London. I remember vividly the sound of that ambassador’s voice, exclaiming with exasperation, her frustratingly thick but fascinating Glaswegian accent curling around the edges of my sleep deprived brain, “I dun understand why ye gotta come here to take classes.” I hadn’t answered any of her questions quickly enough, and the nuanced difficulties of attempting to study abroad without actually going abroad were lost on her. Needless to say, it wasn’t her, and instead all I got from the browned, middle-aged man who inspected my paychecks and proof of citizenship was a raised eyebrow and the addition, “You were here in 2008. What was that about?” I kept it simple, replying, “The same thing.” He nodded, handed me back my passport, eyes already sliding away to size up the impatient woman behind me. With that, I was in England again.
Leah met me at the airport – so thankful for that. We deposited my bags at the Black Lion Guesthouse where I’m staying for a night, not far from Abbey Road, and then walked the town. I’ve been to London… ages ago. We walked and walked, the sights looking somewhat familiar here and there. Parliament, Buckingham Palace, London Bridge, Westminster Abbey, and Hyde Park. All places I’ve seen before, but I wanted to reacquaint myself.
Leah and I had tons to catch up on – a year’s worth to be exact – and London became the backdrop to our visit. Walking along the edge of Hyde Corner, we talked literature, as we always manage to whenever we hang out. She is finishing up her thesis next month – Spatial boundaries and London’s collective unconscious. Excellent stuff, and that got us talking about identity, London’s representation in literature, and the impact of structure on class boundaries. I can’t wait to read her thesis (if she lets me). For those who haven’t seen Leah in a year, she is well: working on finishing her Masters, and lining up a job for September. Really, she is living the dream in London. We met Declan for dinner. Yes, he does exist. Really likable fellow, we got on immediately.
One last anecdote before I get out of bed for today. Leah and I stopped at the Argyle Arms after the lengthy walk, quenching thirst with a cider I didn’t recognize, and it was then that it hit me – surreally, as it had to eventually – that I really was in a London pub chatting with one of my best friends. And as Leah commented suddenly, “I can’t believe you are here in London,” sharing the same surprise, I had a Dalloway moment, and wondered how often we actually share the same thoughts with those around us without communicating it. It is that sort of one-mindedness that never gets old, the experience of two old friends who are just glad to see one another.
A good first day by any measurement.
The agenda today may or may not include the following: Tower of London, Black friars Bridge and Camden (the birth place of punk).
1 comment:
When you mentioned London's collective unconcious, I thought of a novel I read recently called Rivers of London. Its slightly mystery, slightly magic-related and all awesome. I thought maybe you could check it out. Also, I was in London exacly a year ago and I've missed it the whole time. It must be lovely to be back.
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