London on my Mind

I miss reading the posters and advertisements in Tube stations, riding the tube during rush hour and touching twenty strangers at the same time, riding the W7 through North London suburbs, and the public transportation system. I loved people watching, not being in the United States, living in an inexhaustible city, casually strolling into an art gallery and seeing masterpieces for free, sunsets on the Thames, and the British accent. I want to stare at the ceiling in St. Paul’s Cathedral while listening to the organ on a Sunday evening. How about a stroll along Fleet Street sticking out in my college grunge getup? I loved feeling out of place on the Tube if I wasn’t reading something. There is something enchanting about that city. I felt smarter when I was there, or at least like I was getting smarter at a much quicker rate than I am now in the States.

Glimpses of streets, buses, and Tube stations ignite memories of the summer past. An unforgotten headline scrolls through my head: Terrorist attacks on the London transportation system kill 52. I step onto the train anyway. The terror is not forgotten, but it does not control. You like this about the Brits—just like the New Yorkers, they have moved on. You had to move on, that is why you still came to London after last summer’s attacks. Two weeks pass and you know moving on and flying across the pond was the best thing you have ever done with your life.

I miss going to Piccadilly Circus and not feeling like a tourist, observing the mannerisms of internationals gawking at this vast city, being full of pride after giving someone directions, knowing my way around, using a shortcut, and watching lost people; remembering I was overwhelmed by directions when I arrived here.

I want to get a hot chocolate and stroll through the city on a cold evening. I want to walk in one direction for miles knowing I will eventually find another Tube station; a portal right back to the familiar. I want to be caught gawking at shoppers on Oxford Street. A walk from the Tower to the Tate Modern would be nice. Cross Millennium Bridge to St. Paul's, take the Central Line to Holborn, switch to the Piccadilly Line, take the W7 from Finsbury Park, sit upstairs, halfway back in a window seat on the left, and count the pubs on the way to the bottom of Muswell Hill.

Occasionally a stroll through Leicester Square at night finds another movie premiere and a lot of celebrity idolizing. I take part for a while, if I enjoy that person’s work. If I don’t, I might hang around anyway, if I know it will be a good story. Hang around too late and I might find myself running through the West End to watch the Royal Shakespeare Company perform As You Like It at the Novello—from the dress circle.

I want to take the Eye to the top, but not pay for it, and take even more pictures of Parliament, St. Paul’s, Canary Wharf, and the Post Office Tower. Reading Saturday, by Ian McEwan, was even more enjoyable because I walked on the streets mentioned between the book’s covers. Depart for Russell Square on the Piccadilly Line, take the 150 steps to the top instead of waiting for the lift, walk out those tight legs and breath in the cold air as you follow the right side of the square for a block, take a right, take a quick left through a courtyard in front of the college for Oriental and African American studies, take a right at Malet Street, go into the University of London Union, and buy a Guardian for twenty-five pence at the discounted student rate.

Walk through the Portobello Market in Notting Hill and wonder what the fuss was about. Barter with someone for a jacket in Camden Town, but don’t end up buying it. Try to get it for a tenner before you walk away. Quickly walk away after the seller gets pissed off at you for asking. Act like the Tube is broken and walk for an hour in no specific direction. Order a warm pint of Broadside beer at a pub. For your birthday your co-workers will buy the pints after work in Clapham.

Ride the Tube to Zone 6 because you haven’t been there. Take in every last sight of London for life as you ride the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow—above ground this time. When you step off British soil promise yourself a return trip; maybe even a return stay.