I am nestled in a quasi-cozy coffee shop, sipping a latte, looking at London through a frosted window. (At least for the moment, I am. Watch me, though. I am tricky. Soon, I will wander all over London in the space of a story. Watch me move. Watch me move. Watch me watch me watch me move.) Outside the glass, purple flowers whose names I don’t know are dancing in a gale of wet wind. No snow freckle mars the brick red face of the sidewalk, but it is cold. Step outside without a coat and die cold. Drop an egg on the cobblestone street and watch it freeze into a hard yellow eye cold. So cold the sky has turned into a sheet of gray ice.
Posh men and women in cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarves bustle by, and I watch them, wanting, I suppose, for them to believe I am one of them. If I don’t speak, they will never know what I am. Which is this. A person who watches through the glass. An imposter who does not own a scarf, much less know how to tie one with cleverness. An over-pronouncer of r’s. An American who will have to ask the waiter to repeat the soup of the day three times because I cannot understand a damn word these people say. I am fresh off the plane, more or less. The jetlag is still kicking my ass.
Intrepid world traveler. Someone called me that. I can't say I know what intrepid means, but I'm fairly certain I'm not it. Still, I have visited around 15 countries now, give or take, which isn't a lot, but isn't a few either, so I suppose I should be gathering some know-how by now. What I know how to do, mostly, is run from buses.
I was raised on a mountain. My father, my mother, my brother, two cats, and a gaggle of chickens made up the collective society I called my "culture." From time to time, we also saw a pack of migrating cows, and once, my brother swore he saw a cougar. But more or less, my childhood was a simple one. The most danger I faced crossing the street (if that's what you call the dried up riverbed that wound its way up my mountain) was getting my foot stuck in a cattle guard. So, now, here I am, intrepid world traveler, insisting on hurling through the stratosphere to places peopled mostly by double-decker buses intent on killing me.
I came here with my friend, Martine, who is quite possibly the most brilliant, beautiful, innately sophisticated person I know. She is a high-powered corporate executive, and as such, she gets paid to come to places like London and do whatever high-powered executives do in places like London. Make phone calls and such, I suppose. She eats expensive cheeses. And yes, she wears cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarves. As I mentioned, everyone in London wears cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarves. Except me. I wear lime green earmuffs.
Martine brought me along on this trip, expense free, at least on my end, because somehow, I have inexplicably managed to con her into believing we are intellectual equals. She recently married Piers, a fine specimen of British mandom, who is also brilliant and sophisticated and would probably wear a smoking jacket if Martine wasn't too modern for such nonsense. He is a writer, and I can pull off vaguely intelligent conversations about writing with him, if he doesn't delve too deeply. Perhaps this is the reason Martine is under the illusion that I am bosom friend material, even though her IQ has to be 30 or 40 points higher than mine.
But mostly her confidence in me springs from, I think, the fact that I have perfected a social move called "the profound nod." This means that when someone discourses brilliantly on a subject about which you know little or nothing, you nod with great meaning, furrowing your brow and appearing to be thinking thoughts too deep for human utterance. If you know a little about the subject, you spout it, and then nod profoundly again, interlacing your fingers and staring at specks of dust in the distance, thinking deep thoughts. Last night, at a posh little pub peopled with scarf-wearing Londoners, Martine spoke of Mary Wollstonecraft. I am like her, apparently.
"You are so like Mary Wollstonecraft," she told me, staring soulfully into the fireplace. "So brilliant and misunderstood. But she came into her own later in life, as you are. Of course, those early years were a doozie. They say her suicide attempt was a sham, but you know, I've gazed down into the river Thames at midnight, and no one can tell me that someone plunging into those roiling, icy waters doesn't mean business."
After much deliberation, I took a sip of my beer, nodded profoundly, and said, "Ah, those 18th century British feminists. They have much in common with another group of British social activists/artists, namely, the Monkees." (See how I brought the conversation around to a subject I knew more about? That is a class-A move in the school of profound nodding.)
It is mostly through shenanigans like this that I have managed to convince Martine that I as smart as she is, though I think that after observing my behavior around double-decker buses, she may be on to me. Not once, but twice, she has snatched me back from the jaws of death after I stepped blithely into the path of an oncoming red streak of doom. She keeps telling me to look both ways before I cross, as if I don't know that.
Actually, I don't. Not innately. I think learning to cross a street is like learning a second language. If you don't do it when you are a child, you will never be truly proficient. I am not a fluent street crosser. I have to think about it each time I come to an intersection, which raises a gnawing sense of dread when I wander through a large city. This trip at least, this hasn’t been much of a problem, however, as my sophisticated, scarf- wearing friend has been with me to save me from being squashed like a grape in the middle of Fleet Street. But today, my high powered executive friend had to work, because that's what she does here.
So I was alone in this lovely hotel room that just so happens to overlook the courtyard of St. Paul's Cathedral. The sun was shining, more or less, bounding off the spires like a happy, scarf-wearing, British child. I had promised my British Lit professor back home a picture of Oliver Goldsmith's grave, partially because I like my lovely professor, and partially because I wanted an A in her class. Armed with a map, a water bottle, and the hotel address in case I got lost and needed to have a taxi take me home, I headed out. Wearing high heels.
Before you judge me, consider this. Martine told me before I came that I needed to wear comfortable shoes. So I brought tennis shoes. But when I got here, I found out that the only people in London who wear tennis shoes are joggers and construction workers. So if I was going to wear tennis shoes and "blend," (one of the goals of intrepid world travelers is to "blend"), I was either going to have to match the shoes with a pair of Lycra spandex and walk about heaving violently and sweating, or, I was going to have to carry a hammer. Neither seemed practical. So I settled on wearing my two-inch-heels, as opposed to my five-inch-heels. The grave in question was a block away anyway. No problem. As follows is a run down of my intrepid world traveller morning (which eventually brought me to the coffee shop, which will eventually lead to an epiphany. Bear with me. Or watch me move. Wait, forget bearing. Just watch me move. It sounds cooler.)
9:14 Exit hotel.
9:15 Return to hotel to get camera.
9:16 Exit hotel.
9:17 Thrill with the glorious sensation of walking the streets of downtown London, briskly, knowing I "blend." Still, wish I had a cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarf.
9:18 Realize I am lost. Turn around.
9:23 Wait, I'm not lost. Turn back around.
9:27 Come to a major thoroughfare. See oncoming buses. Have panic attack. Turn back around.
9:30 Suavely sit on curb. Nonchalantly take out map. Realize I have to cross the thoroughfare if I want A in class.
9:31 Look both ways. Look both ways. Walk. Shriek, "God, save me" and cover head with hands. Run.
9:32 Dive onto sidewalk. Scream, "Sorry, sorry," and wave at the back of the double-decker bus that almost mowed me down.
9:33 Sit down on curb and cry. Look around. Think, "This really doesn't look like a tourist district." Wipe away tears and take out map. Get my bearings. Walk.
9:35 Thrill at the sight of Westminster Abbey. Take photos of myself smiling, Myspace style.
9:35 See sign on front of Westminster Abbey that reads "National Bank." Realize I am not at Westminster Abbey and people are looking at me funny.
9:35 Walk. Fast.
9:37. Gasp and lurch violently as a man leaning against wall hisses at me
9:38 Walk faster. Contemplate the meaning of hissing. Is it a threat? A come on? The London-ese equivalent of a whistle?
9:40 Realize I have walked too far. Duck into a nearby pub, hoping that by the time I finish my beer, hissing man will be gone.
10:00 Leave pub and immediately see hissing man, who hisses again, and says, "You are most beautiful.” Say, "Thank you," and walk faster.
10:01 Freak out because hissing man is following me down the street. Start to run a little. Think, "I shouldn't have said 'thank you' when he said I was beautiful." Inwardly chastise self, mentally slapping forehead and saying, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Hear hissing man scream, "Wait, wait, just talk to me, beautiful girl. Please." Run faster. For first time wish had not worn high heels.
10:02 Come to thoroughfare. See oncoming bus. Stop. Hear hissing man pound up behind me, asking, "Can you speak?"
10:03 Hissing man has given me an idea. Contemplate pretending not to be able to speak. I can do my ABC's in American Sign. He wouldn't know American Sign, would he?
10:04 Hear hissing man ask which languages I speak. Remember that everyone in the world besides Americans speaks about 14 languages. Realize there is a good chance that he may speak American Sign. Whisper, "I speak English" and hope hissing man will not kill me. Hear hissing man ask for my phone number. Tell hissing man I am visiting London with my boyfriend. Contemplate telling him that said boyfriend's name is Hulk, but realize this may be going too far. Watch with relief as "Don't Walk" changes to "Walk." Turn to go. Feel hissing man grab hand and refuse to let go. Hear him say, "Talk to me, talk to me. You most beautiful." Extricate hand. Run.
10:05-11:14 Walk up and down street looking for courtyard in which said grave is hidden. I mean really hidden.
11:16 Find grave. Take photos, noting that it is ugly and old and covered in green moss and not really worth the trouble I went through to find it. Worry that hissing man may have followed me and may be lurking behind monuments. Look over shoulder. Spout expletives.
11:18 Return to hotel
11:45 Realize I passed hotel and am now crossing the River Thames. Thrill at the thought that I am crossing the River Thames, haltingly, but still blending, no problem, with or without cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarf.
11:45 Wander into a building that happens to be the reconstruction of the Globe Theater. Watch highly trained actors swordfight. Thrill at the thought that I am in the Globe Theater watching highly trained actors swordfight. Buy souvenirs.
12:35 Wander into a pub near the River Thames. Order chicken salad. Sit down and try to blend. Look out window at river and nod profoundly, appearing to think thoughts too deep for human utterance. Smile at waiter and compliment him on his cleverly-tied, brightly-colored scarf. Watch him put down food and ask if I need "cutlery." Say, "What?" Listen to him say, "Cutlery, do you need cutlery?" Remember that that is what they call silverware in London. Say, "Oh, yeah," and giggle in posh way. Feel dismayed to note that in addition to chicken, salad is covered in little dead silver fish.
12:40 Choke down little dead silver fish, hoping to blend.
1:08 Hobble back to hotel. Worry because toes are numb.
1:37 Realize I am nowhere near the hotel, and the guy with crazy eyes in the alley looks like he wants to rip my throat out with his teeth. Try to look like I know karate. Turn around.
1:45 Wait. I walked too far. Try to recall whether or not I have ever read about anyone's toes falling off.
1:50 Are there cows in London? I mean, within the city limits, strictly speaking?
1:51 I don't think so. Say goodbye to cow. Turn around. Smell something funny. Casually sniff armpits. It's not my armpits.
1:52 Oh, it's urine. I am back at alley, and crazy-eyed man is peeing on wall.
1:53 Bust out my karate. Hear crazy man call me bad names. See spire of St. Paul's cathedral up ahead. Head for it and briskest pace broken feet will allow.
1:55 Look over shoulder. See spire of St. Paul's Cathedral behind me. Turn around.
1:57: See spire of St. Paul's Cathedral to the left of me. Make a left.
1:59 See spire of St. Paul's Cathedral to the right of me. Make a right.
2:04 See spire of St. Paul's Cathedral behind me. Curse St. Paul's Cathedral in bitter tones. Hail taxi.
2:05 Listen to taxi driver note that I am American and listen as he talks about American Idol with much aplomb. Wish I watched American Idol so I could make a friend. Listen to taxi driver ask me where I am from. Tell him New Mexico. Listen to him go off about tequila and Aztec ruins. Tell him New Mexico is a state in the U.S., knowing that this explanation will not really make a difference, having had this conversation in 15 other countries now. Listen as he asks me if everyone in Mexico still drives little green Volkswagons. Wonder what that even means. Say, "No." Listen as driver points out Parliament Building. Listen as he adds that "Parliament" (he says this word slowly, as if I am very young or mentally deficient) is their "government" (he also says this word slowly).
2:35 Hobble into hotel. Toss shoes in trash can. Go over pics from days adventures. Wonder if I can crop bank picture to look like Westminster Abbey for Myspace.
Eventually, I mustered the courage to leave the hotel again. I donned my tennis shoes and hobbled off to the coffee shop, noting with dismay that the weather had changed and there was no more sunlight hopping from spire to spire, nothing yellow resembling anything like a happy child. Instead, there was wind. And rain. And the sky was threatening to snow. I got out my umbrella, and, of course, an angry gust turned it inside out immediately. I tried to yank it back down. Didn’t happen. Wandered along like that, getting soaked, wondering what the hell I was trying to prove, leaving my little adobe domicile, coming to this posh place that so obviously hated my guts.
Now let me wax, if not philosophical, at least explanatory for a sentence or two. This self-doubt is not new. There is this moment, a heart stopping conglomeration of acute unease and profound mistrust of self, on every trip. (And who could blame me for not trusting myself, hobbling about as I was, blistered in my uncool shoes and lime green earmuffs, sporting an inside out umbrella?) In any case, the first steps, off the plane, the bus, the train, whatever metal womb has gestated you during your journey, are always the hardest. “I don’t know how to do this,” you say. “I don’t know the rules.” You tell yourself you don’t need no rusty rules, but fuck all if the guy hurdling down the street in the double-decker bus doesn’t think you do.
You cry. You always do. At the beginning, the first day, or the second maybe, of any trip, you cry. You cry and you wander into a coffee shop with your inside out umbrella, and you blush when you order your goddamn latte, because you try to pay with a credit card, and when the lady says, “Cash only,” it takes you a good minute to understand what she means. These people speak English, for God’s sake, and still, there is a language barrier.
Utterly beaten, you hobble to a corner, plop yourself by a window, and watch. Out there, those delicate purple flowers have somehow managed to survive this London winter, and they are dancing in the wind, purple as ever. The flowers have survived, but you can’t do it. You just can’t. You resist the urge to bury your head in your hands and wail.
A businessman behind you is talking on his micro-mini-cell-phone, stringing orders like beads on a wire, and you listen. He says this: He says, “Don’t just fucking sit there. Do something. It’s always better to do than die. Bloody hell.” And he isn’t Dr. Phil, and he sure isn’t talking to you, but you take it to heart anyway, you just need something, anything, right now. You take it to heart and congratulate yourself that tear-stained and ear-muffed you is sitting here in a quasi-cozy coffee shop in London instead of idling at home. You are doing, not dying, and even if your umbrella is fucked up beyond all recognition, it feels good.
A song is playing on the speakers, a song you used to sing in seventh grade chorus, and suddenly, looking out the window, you are just like the song says, on top of the world looking down on creation. You are wrapped in this warm thing that has nothing to do with the fire. For a minute, you own you, you know? You own yourself, your freaky earmuffs and your scarf-less neck and your shaking hand holding your inside out umbrella and your eyes looking out at the bustling posh people and the unbeaten purple flowers and you realize you were wrong. You are just like the flowers. Just like them, because you are fucking doing, not dying. (Now I will make the big jump. The promised epiphany, as it were. Though epiphany may be too big a word. Try “food for thought” on for size. Chicken soup for the lunatic soul?)
Think of life as this, as a trip. You slide out of the womb screaming, wondering at the enormity of the double-decker buses hurdling your way. “I can’t do this,” you say. “I don’t know the rules.” And for a moment, you are right. You almost get squished like a grape. But somewhere along the way, you decide that you don’t need no rusty rules. You rock your lime green earmuffs and inside out umbrella. You rock the shit out of those babies, and all those posh people in their brightly-colored scarves stand up and take notice.
“Are those Bugle Boy jeans you are wearing,” they ask, and you say, “No, K-Mart,” and the way you over-pronounce that “r” rocks the £30 argyle socks off their cleverly-tied world.
And that otherworldliness you have, that accent that is a dead giveaway that you are not from around here, stops embarrassing you and you talk more because, holy hell, these cats think you, you in your uncool shoes and freaky green earmuffs, you with that inside out umbrella, you who have to ask the waiter to repeat himself three times, you who almost got squished like a grape on Fleet Street, you who got chased down by a hissing man and cussed out by a pissing man. You. Yeah you. The one with no scarf. You. Are. Exotic.
Author’s Note (a disclaimer, as it were): Those last three paragraphs may not be an entirely accurate description of actual events. I finished my latte in silence, and no one, in fact, stood up and took notice. Except me. I noticed. Then I stood up. Which was enough.
(This piece was written during the course of two trips I took to London during the past year. I posted it today because, well, I just created this blog and it seems like as good a time as any. I am, in fact, in San Miguel de Allende, as I post it.)
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