British Airways has comfortable seats. So. I’m in 29C. A British guy, cute, with nice skin and a hip, green Puma jacket and short cropped hair is in 29A. No one sits between us, so we throw all our blankets and pillows there. The guy talks about his recent trip to Las Vegas & San Francisco, and asks my reasons for going to the UK. He later asks me what my husband thinks of my year-long venture to London, which confuses me, then I see I have my Grandmother’s wedding ring on my left hand. I explain my utter lack of desire for a husband and he laughs. The sun has long descended so I shut my tired eyes, leaning against the headrest. I feel his hand lightly brush against my arm. Then again. I narrowly open my eyes, and I see him inching his hand across the empty seat towards my elbow. He flicks his hand across it twice. Did this 27 year old forget when I told him I was 40? I turn away pretending to be asleep, and finally fall asleep. When I wake up, I find my hand in his! I ran to the bathroom where I splashed water on my face until someone started banging on the door. By then the breakfast service started so we had to eat, give back our trays and trash and then, finally, land. I was so flustered by his overtures. He put his phone number in my bag. I won’t call, of course. But I admire his boldness. At least he's clear.
The immigration officer saw my scholarship letter of support and told me it was one of the largest she had ever seen. Nice.
There is a quality about England that is hard to describe. Archaic and antiquedated come to mind. So does old. One gigantic flea market might describe it best. England seems like it was constructed out of rummage sale artefacts: too small pipes. Faded wallpaper. Old-time phones. Antique-looking lighting fixtures. Ancient, red bricks. Still it’s familiar, like a Great Aunt’s easy chair.
Camden is pretty working class. Lots of junky stores with second rate household goods. A Caribbean man inside a phone store, in a nice suit and starched shirt, pushes phone service. Outside, a sea of different ethnicities and ages waits at the bus stop. There was a crazy man jumping between passers-by saying “I love you.” It made everyone nervous. Grandmothers push quilted shopping carts with their groceries and flowers. A reminder of what’s important in this world: food and flowers.
There is a definite shift when you get near campus. More banker types. Lots of people on cell phones. Suddenly, traffic is furious and there is a bustle all around. I like both neighborhoods. And I like the walk.
So my room. When I got off the train with my 180 pounds of luggage and navigated King’s Cross without an elevator (ergo the twelve bruises on my arm), I nearly collapsed at the residence hall reception, when they told me that they had no rooms. I grabbed the manager by the shoulders and said “Sweetie, do you want to see a grown woman cry?” He acquiesced and showed me a room that wasn’t ready. It looked like a prison cell. Or one of those Japanese capsule hotels. I came back to the manager and batted my eyelashes yet again and did my best Texas drawl. “Do you have something a little bit bigger?” and he gave me the 2 bedroom apartment on the third floor. This means I share with only one other person. As opposed to 3, 4 or 5 people. Can you imagine me, the shower queen having to share with 4 people? I would be the roommate, er sorry, flatmate, from hell. My room is cute. It is squarer. Has a sink, desk, nightstand, armoire. The bed is the size of a Snickers bar and feels like it is made entirely of springs. Luckily jet-lag allows you to sleep anywhere.
There is something both terrifying and exhilarating about being in London not knowing anyone, especially while being without internet or a phone. If I was hit by a bus (plausible scenario given the counter-intuitive traffic patterns)… would anyone know to look for me? But as soon as you realize that you don’t HAVE to die anytime soon, you see how pleasant it is to be anonymous and invisible. I can finally reinvent myself.
