Dear Seattle –
“Beredfasagergascross.” The man said, leaning heavily on a cane, as he crept down the sidewalk.
I’m terrible with age-estimation, so I’ll just be over the top and say he looked like he shared a birthday with Westminster Abbey.
I assumed he was talking to himself, but he headed toward where I leaned against the concrete retaining wall beside the bus stop. So I glanced around (to make sure he wasn’t talking to a friend he’d just recognized) and said – in perfectly good American:
“Excuse me?”
I’d just emerged from the London flat of friends and – armed with an elegantly organized collection of maps, post-its, and street guide – felt almost ready to take this new city by storm. “Almost” meaning I was standing beside the bus stop; checking the schedule every five seconds; patting my zippered coat pocket to verify the bus card was still where I stashed it; looking the wrong way down the street for the oncoming bus; and stepping eagerly to the curb up at each bus before realizing it wasn’t mine. So yeah. In my semi-neurotic-in-the-city traveler sort of way, I was definitely ready to conquer London.
But THIS, this was unexpected. English words came out of his mouth, but I’m not entirely convinced we were speaking the same language.
He, apparently, came to the same conclusion. He took my arm and started to turn back toward the curb. I had six inches and probably 20 pounds on him, but he had a good grip.
“..Cross street….” Okay this was starting to make sense.
By the third repetition, and repeated tugging, I was starting to get the picture. Why he had picked a shiny new tourist among the more seasoned Londoners at the bus stop is still beyond me. One theory: I must have had the right facial combination of anxious and gullible. Another: at this very moment, he’s cracking up the rest of the old dudes at the pub with a dumb tourist story.
Anyway, I my desire to look at the bus schedule warred with dual impulses to be kind to strangers and help out the elderly. A little quick math determined my bus would be along any minute now. With one more longing glance at the oncoming traffic I suggested:
“So, shouldn’t we use the cross walk?”
I would like to say I understood the reply, but the answer was no as he continued maneuvering us to the curb. I figured maybe our language difficulties were mutual so I added:
“This is your town and I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but this is my first day in London and I don’t want to die.”
That earned me a laugh and a moment of hesitation before stepping into the street that I’m sure was entirely for my benefit. We waited for a small break in traffic, I held my breath and we started walking.Then the magic:
Traffic stopped. And for the longest 60 seconds of my life an ancient man hobbled across the street, leaning heavily on my arm. As we paused at the concrete island halfway across I saw my the number 26 pull up from the curb behind.
“That’s my bus,” I moaned a little. An oncoming taxi flashed its lights, signalling it was ok for us to keep going and I sighed. “Oh well, next one in 7-12 minutes.” I should know, I’d been fixated on the sign on and off for the past 10.
And on we went. On the other curb, the grip on my arm released with another stream of semi-compatible language which might have been thanks (or might have been “what’s wrong with the kids these days: dragging their asses to help an old man across the damn street”) and he was off. I watched him continue down the street, using both cane and the wrought iron fence for support.
When I turned back from the curb, I checked the traffic correctly (left first, then right – then left again for good measure) and walked back across the street to the bus stop. As the next bus approached – a 48 – I said to hell with the plan and hopped on, and so began my London adventure.
The 48 deposited with an excellent view of the London Bridge. I crossed, shyly snapping photos on my phone, but by the time I’d crossed again and did a loop around St. Paul’s I was mugging for self portraits like the tourist I am. The gust of pleasure I felt striding down Fleet and Strand dressed in jeans and hiking boots among the suited and high-heeled wearing 9-5ers was matched only by the contentment of lunching on a takeaway sandwich while plotting my next move at Trafalgar square.
As on the Camino, the sense of accomplishment just by crossing town on my own two feet. I love the urge to walk just a bit further and the drive to see what’s around the next corner. I am addicted to walking. I couldn’t keep a smile off my face.
I had a late start to the day, so I made it as far Parliament and Westminster Abbey before starting back. As the daylight started to fade and the streets filled with busy professionals beginning their commute home (the tennis shoes come out at night, apparently) I meandered along Victoria’s Embankment, crossing the footbridge and continued along Queen’s walk. I lingered over a used book table and paused for to enjoy a few of the best buskers (including a cellist in one of the tunnels). The bare trees light up with lights before I made it to the Tube station which was a bit of a mistake on my part. Afternoon commute in the Tube is it’s on circle of hell.
I made it only to the next stop before prying myself out from between briefcases and backpacks and deciding I would stick to the surface the rest of the way. With a little help from the Mini A-Z (pronounced charmingly, “a to zed”) and the instructive post-its from my host I found my bus stop. This time, I read a book while I waited for the 26 to pull up to the curb.
On the way back to the flat I stopped for a few groceries. Pawing through a handful of strange coins (I learned the “trick” to pounds later that evening) reminded me that I was far from being a local. Still, walking is my favorite way to explore a new place. It connects and grounds me.
Luckily the next few days will be full of walking. My London hosts have a charming new addition to their family who enjoys spending his afternoons exploring the neighborhood by pram. On Thursday I’ll be reconnecting with a Camigo with a trip to a museum and lunch. Then back to Paris for the weekend and a chance to do the exploring I didn’t have time for on the way out. On Monday, I leave for home.
It’s nice to be moving toward the end of the trip and ready to go home at the same time. The bittersweet of last days on the road and anticipation of a return the familiar balance each other nicely. I still have a few more Camino posts to follow up on, but for now, some photos from London: