So I had secretly thought it was strange that I had never seen any real police activity for the 4 months I had been in London. It's strange considering that there's a pretty dense population, lots of alcohol and a wide social & racial strata. ...There was just that one time when I saw a pair of intoxicated men fighting, and one tried to push the other in front of the oncoming bus.
Last night, Roomie decided to make a trip to the grocery store and offered to get me something while she was at it. I asked for milk and olive oil.
A bit later, she came back in--empty-handed. She sat down and told me the story:
She walked two streets over to Somerfield (the little place where I'll be getting my eats for the next 6 months) and it was all covered in police tape. Somehow, she walked under the tape unchecked and walked up to the closed glass doors and peered inside where employees were packing away items. They frantically gestured that they were closed so my roomie turned to go back home. Before she could get too far, a police officer stopped her and asked what she was doing.
"I wanted to buy some milk." she answered.
"Were you here during the crime?" he asked.
"Uh, I didn't know there was a crime. What happened??"
"This is a crime scene. Now go...Go!" he ordered.
She was shuffled back on the other side of the police line and confusedly walked home to relay this story to me. We're still wondering what happened. I think I'll go today and get my milk and oil; maybe I'll find out.
I don't make this stuff up, folks.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Homecoming
Upon arrival at LHR (Heathrow Airport), I topped up my Oyster card (which still had about 2 pounds on it from last December), and went to the platform to wait for the Tube.
As I got onto the train, I was instantly flooded with memories. The very familiar fabric of the seats on the Piccadilly line (deep blue with a scattered square pattern) brought back a very eventful 4 months of last year.
This time, I was convinced that I had packed lightly with one large, red suitcase, a carry-on and a backpack. When I alighted at my stop, Westbourne Park, I was dismayed to see that it's a station with stairs...and no lift.
I proceeded to lug my two bags up the stairs--one step at a time. To my surprise, a pale, young man--complete with freckles--passing down the stairs toward the platform to catch the train stopped, crossed under the railing to my side and, with few words, carried my bag to the top--he probably missed the train. Another young man, walking behind me grabbed my carry-on case and also effortlessly transported it to the top step. I thanked them both warmly and they hurried off to get where they were going. I would like to say that despite even Londoners' own assessment of their supposed cold reception to others, I felt very cared for by these two strangers. Yay, I like these kinds of surprises!
Also, after this event, I understand why people use the term "emotional baggage." It's not a fun thing to carry about.
I walked from the station to my new flat. The landlord himself is quite a character, but that's another story...
I rang the doorbell and my luggage was again seized, this time by the kind Frenchman living downstairs, and brought up a flight of stairs to my flat. My new flatmates are quite interesting & diverse (as usual)--I would be surprised if it were any other way given my past history.
The first young woman I met is Brazilian and is studying English here, very friendly; in fact, I'm sleeping in her sheets if that gives you any indicator of how warm and kind she is. Her immediate roommate is an Aussie who works with disabled schoolchildren during the day. And then there's my unemployed self rooming with my amiga who lived in the flat below me last time we were in London!
All that remains for me to do is to join the ranks of the employed!
As I got onto the train, I was instantly flooded with memories. The very familiar fabric of the seats on the Piccadilly line (deep blue with a scattered square pattern) brought back a very eventful 4 months of last year.
This time, I was convinced that I had packed lightly with one large, red suitcase, a carry-on and a backpack. When I alighted at my stop, Westbourne Park, I was dismayed to see that it's a station with stairs...and no lift.
I proceeded to lug my two bags up the stairs--one step at a time. To my surprise, a pale, young man--complete with freckles--passing down the stairs toward the platform to catch the train stopped, crossed under the railing to my side and, with few words, carried my bag to the top--he probably missed the train. Another young man, walking behind me grabbed my carry-on case and also effortlessly transported it to the top step. I thanked them both warmly and they hurried off to get where they were going. I would like to say that despite even Londoners' own assessment of their supposed cold reception to others, I felt very cared for by these two strangers. Yay, I like these kinds of surprises!
Also, after this event, I understand why people use the term "emotional baggage." It's not a fun thing to carry about.
I walked from the station to my new flat. The landlord himself is quite a character, but that's another story...
I rang the doorbell and my luggage was again seized, this time by the kind Frenchman living downstairs, and brought up a flight of stairs to my flat. My new flatmates are quite interesting & diverse (as usual)--I would be surprised if it were any other way given my past history.
The first young woman I met is Brazilian and is studying English here, very friendly; in fact, I'm sleeping in her sheets if that gives you any indicator of how warm and kind she is. Her immediate roommate is an Aussie who works with disabled schoolchildren during the day. And then there's my unemployed self rooming with my amiga who lived in the flat below me last time we were in London!
All that remains for me to do is to join the ranks of the employed!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Strangers on a plane
Monday, almost 3 days ago, I boarded the aircraft which brought me back to London. I wasn't particularly excited about the flight itself as int'l flights are one of my least favourite things. Honestly, it's always the people you sit by that make the flight a bit better or rather worse. Isn't that just like life?
So when I found my seat that evening, I wasn't sure how to feel about sitting next to a rather tense, grim woman and the little girl in her care. Before the plane even took its place on the runway, I realised (not without a little interest) that the woman and the girl were speaking completely in German. The woman, asking the flight attendant for meds to treat her unbearable headache, used halting, strained English.
I congratulated myself for pre-assigning myself to an aisle seat.
A short while into the flight, the woman shyly smiled at me and walked her fingers in the air to indicate that she and the girl wanted to get past my seat to use the lavatory. I smiled back and quickly stood into the aisle to let them by. While the German woman pulled out her bag from the overhead bins, the young girl looked at me with the steady shamelessness that only little ones can pull off.
I, in my shamelessness, decided that I would try communicating with the girl, an adorable blonde with bright eyes.
"HOW...OLD...ARE...YOU?" I said clearly and slowly, just to make sure that she understood the question.
"I'm 6 years old. What's your name?" she replied in effortless, native English.
Wow. I was the one who needed the help here.
I answered her and turned it right back on her. "What's your name?"
"Luna." she replied, "It's Spanish for 'moon.' My daddy and mommy met under a full moon, so they named me Luna!"
I smiled, delighted at the beautiful story.
"Are you going to London?" I asked.
"I'm going to Germany!" she declared.
"Do you live in Germany?" I queried, still in disbelief that this 6-year-old had complete, native fluency in both German and English.
"I live in Valencia."
"Oh."
I began to wonder if the reticent woman chaperoning her was her mother (I deemed this unlikely) or a German-speaking nanny taking her to the Fatherland...
Little Luna answered my silent question minutes later by asking "Mommy" a question. As Mommy dozed off, I entertained her by watching her play with a teddy-bear sticker book. Luna glanced deviously toward her sleeping mother and then leaned toward me and said, "Mommy and Daddy are divorced now." And just as quickly she returned back to playing with the stickers as if nothing had been said. I took another look at the German mother with lots more questions building in my mind but, out of the bit of propriety I have, kept them to myself.
A couple hours later, it was time for Luna's bedtime. She rested her head on her mother's lap and tucked her feet onto her own seat. It only took a few minutes before her feet involuntarily found their way to my knee. Something about this sweet, little girl with such a divided life stirred me and I preferred having her tiny feet in mismatched socks invade my plane seat.
Probably the most enjoyable flight I've had yet.
And here I am safe & sound!
So when I found my seat that evening, I wasn't sure how to feel about sitting next to a rather tense, grim woman and the little girl in her care. Before the plane even took its place on the runway, I realised (not without a little interest) that the woman and the girl were speaking completely in German. The woman, asking the flight attendant for meds to treat her unbearable headache, used halting, strained English.
I congratulated myself for pre-assigning myself to an aisle seat.
A short while into the flight, the woman shyly smiled at me and walked her fingers in the air to indicate that she and the girl wanted to get past my seat to use the lavatory. I smiled back and quickly stood into the aisle to let them by. While the German woman pulled out her bag from the overhead bins, the young girl looked at me with the steady shamelessness that only little ones can pull off.
I, in my shamelessness, decided that I would try communicating with the girl, an adorable blonde with bright eyes.
"HOW...OLD...ARE...YOU?" I said clearly and slowly, just to make sure that she understood the question.
"I'm 6 years old. What's your name?" she replied in effortless, native English.
Wow. I was the one who needed the help here.
I answered her and turned it right back on her. "What's your name?"
"Luna." she replied, "It's Spanish for 'moon.' My daddy and mommy met under a full moon, so they named me Luna!"
I smiled, delighted at the beautiful story.
"Are you going to London?" I asked.
"I'm going to Germany!" she declared.
"Do you live in Germany?" I queried, still in disbelief that this 6-year-old had complete, native fluency in both German and English.
"I live in Valencia."
"Oh."
I began to wonder if the reticent woman chaperoning her was her mother (I deemed this unlikely) or a German-speaking nanny taking her to the Fatherland...
Little Luna answered my silent question minutes later by asking "Mommy" a question. As Mommy dozed off, I entertained her by watching her play with a teddy-bear sticker book. Luna glanced deviously toward her sleeping mother and then leaned toward me and said, "Mommy and Daddy are divorced now." And just as quickly she returned back to playing with the stickers as if nothing had been said. I took another look at the German mother with lots more questions building in my mind but, out of the bit of propriety I have, kept them to myself.
A couple hours later, it was time for Luna's bedtime. She rested her head on her mother's lap and tucked her feet onto her own seat. It only took a few minutes before her feet involuntarily found their way to my knee. Something about this sweet, little girl with such a divided life stirred me and I preferred having her tiny feet in mismatched socks invade my plane seat.
Probably the most enjoyable flight I've had yet.
And here I am safe & sound!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Remix
Isn't it interesting how hindsight is 20/20? In my last post (written 6 months ago) I was leaning toward the idea that I wouldn't be back to Europe in the near future (or ever!)--and here I am with a ticket to London scheduled for tomorrow!It feels funny to be going back; this time, all by my lonesome & without a real plan. No job, yet : )
I'm told that my adventure is rather Sabrina-esque; and in fact, it does seem to be quite parallel to my life.
Don't expect the sophisticated haircut upon my return, though...nor an increase in culinary ability.
See you on the island!
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