Story
1 little balloons went for a walk in the forest. They followed each other along the shaded paths, they climbed the hill one after the other, they played and jumped off the called trees as if the world was never going to be the same. And despite the dangers of this outing, they all came back home and safe.
One often forgets what it means to be living in England. Well, of course I wouldn't know since I don't live there actually. But that's not the point. What I mean is that when I approached the gate, I knew already that it is a different type of a flight - first, the person behind the Mövenpick counter was a Greek and he still managed to sound British enough in his politeness apologizing profusely for the lack of soya milk and stirring my sugar in my regular black coffee. Then was the fact that people at the gate chatted - I mean they chatted loudly, and they approached each other - they approach each other although they were perfect strangers - they found someone in common just by looking at each other - maybe it was the fashionable outfit with the green Vuitton holdall and the red driving Tod's, or maybe it was the Indian dark-skinned complexion and fast speed of everything they said, or maybe it was the pink-skinned cheeks reminding one that England is rightfully a place where sunscreen is needed once a year (in case you wonder, that's in spring - when the foreign tourists start flashing their camera flashes).
But what is most stunning (or "jolly" if I want to try to sound more British than I should be allowed to) is that every sentence contains a word of endearment - it either starts with it or it ends with it (if it s a question it usually ends with it; as a statement it might as well be both in the beginning and in the end). "Lovely choice, darling", "what did you think of that film we saw last night, dear?", "what will it be, mate?", and on and on (and if you prefer: "darling, what can get you?" To which one replies cheerfully "I'd have a lovely coffee, please" even if one doesn't know that the coffee is going to be [or not] lovely).
Once in place, of course we have Lufthansa so we have a very German greeting attempting to sound well-placed "Good evening, this is your captain, the weather in London is slightly worse than in Dusseldorf..." - of course the weather forecast takes precedence but not because one needs the information but because one has to be able to channel that frustration - you know, the one that is suppressed when one is saying "Sir, what drink can I help you to?" They don't need it to know what to wear or which umbrella to bring. And of course, the weather was nothing that a Brit would consider "worse" - not even compared to tropical sunshine - "nah, just a little bit of wet air, that's all - nothing to write home about".
And of course they will be the ones to make you a compliment on the camera - nowhere else do they do that - not even in Germany although of course they all know the Leica - they are so proud that they happily would tell you that the last German Leica was made in the 1960s. But no - they just stare at it trying to be inconspicuous. But I've been outbound to England for a mere hour before two people chatted me up about it. And the trouble is - I don't know how to respond to such compliments - I've lost the touch of being tossed an opportunity for small talk and not knowing how to handle it - almost like being tossed a ball you were very good at catching in the distant past but your callous fingers are no longer able to register it. So we do the best we can - we smile casually and let the ball fall. Perhaps I need just a day or two - we shall test and them I will know if it is because of my orange bow tie or simply a logical continuation of the "cheers, mate".
The flight goes uneventful of course - because we are all polite German travellers who don't talk to each other. Apart from the loud English party at the back - I am not sure what they argued about but I hear "biscuits" and "Elton John" mentioned on several occasions - not that this would have narrowed down the topics - "biscuits" and "Elton John" are pretty much present in every conversation between the British. And for a very good reason. Biscuits go with tea so they are ingrained in the culture of the society ("naturally") like nothing else (no wonder they have a special association - English Biscuit Manufacturers - like the unions in France or the guilds in Terry Pratchett's novels). And then there is Elton - Sir Elton (he couldn't possible be called Sir John - that's way too informal and generic); he is part of the conversation as a quintessentially British icon of the rebellion they all want to wear on their sleeves: rebellion in music, rebellion in lifestyle, even rebellion in ageing.
But I don't think they were discussing Elton John's choice of biscuits and when we disembarked, I was too jittery to focus on their conversation - I was walking on British soil, breathing in the British air (saturated in humidity), and feeling as if I had landed on a different planet - confusing enough that I had to keep repeating to myself "right, left, right, left" - but also embracing enough that wherever I looked, I could see the melting pot - the immigration officers weren't pink enough in their face, the souvenir stands were served by what appeared to be Asians, and only one of the passengers in the underground on that first afternoon wore tweed. And I felt part of it - I felt included without giving up my pink-and-turquoise socks (now that I think about it, they probably even helped with their semi-sartorial look).
And that's the thing about the British - they include you. You go to a museum, and they don't care if you are a student of art theory, or if you read tabloids and the gossip column - you get to get in - you are admitted without the punishment of an entrance fee. You are living the idea of free and widely distributed education in that most fundamentally aristocratic nation. And perhaps this is where the difference between the French aristocracy and the British one is born: exclusivity vs. inclusivity (that, and self-efficacingness vs. self-aggrondization).
So, my lessons of a weekend in London state that no matter what nation your host comes from, you take the biscuits with a polite "oh, that's lovely, isn't it", you dip them in your tea (first milk, and then the tea, of course), you smile looking through the window (with the casual remark, as if to yourself, "oh, isn't that a lovely day, darling"), and, in the words of Sir Elton, you "surrender to the rush of day" and enjoy the "enchanted moment" with your precious company and go take pictures!
The pictures for the feature were selected from my street photography gallery.
I am sitting in the car and watching her talk to her sister. And my heart skips a beat - not because of the topic or because of the approaching train that I need to take. But because I get that feeling of familiarity, the feeling of knowing what's coming, the feeling of verbal recognition - the déjà-vu. Because I've been there before - in that car, with those people, and in that conversation - but not in reality (or at least not in the conscious reality).
I arrived late after train-station hopping with a suitcase and a camera in hand. Checking at the arrival schedule, I wonder how long it takes to get out of the gate with a suitcase that she can't carry (and I wonder - what if there is no one to help with it). Of course, the idea is ridiculous (although the guys at customs might be more helpful than they should with other motivations). And she is there and she sees me first - and I am a tad confused (seems to be the norm of late) and we walk through the airport to the train station in a daze - perhaps it is the image of the bandade and the scar below, or the image of the flying byke (and worse - the flying E.). In the train, I rest my shoulder on hers and I feel her strength - way beyond my own - but that's again the titanium bone-support.
We walk to the hotel - and it is charming - with stairs shaped like a heart, escalator with a carpet on the wall, and a welcoming receptionist like in a movie - he explains how to get around the city, and so we do, leaving behind our baggage (and the metaphorical) and enjoying our conversation (in the midst of the football game - how dare we?!). And who would have known that she has hatched a cunning plan - and I would be her partner in crime (then again, when one brings a smile and tears and a smile again, one feels no remorse).
Day 2 starts with rain - as it should always do - because rain keeps the streets envigorated - people rushing to get away from the rain, people opening colourful umbrellas hoping for protection, people cuddling closer together under the same umbrella. And then there are the people like us who couldn't care less for an umbrella. And we walk looking for old books, new fashion cuts, and discourses on life (we are such cliches!). But then comes our chance to hatch the plan - to surprise our hosts with an arrival - and surprise we do - as they have just relaxed on the massage table, we barge in to their amazement - and they don't know if the massage oil fumes have not messed up with their eyes.
And that's when I see the tears, mixed with joy, and smiles - when salt becomes elixir that heals wounds and scars.
It started beautifully. A saturday with a wonderfully refreshing weather in Brussels (waking up at 5 in the morning on Saturday to catch my flight). Arriving in London city centre before 9 was a gorgeous experience - don't you just love the city (any city) in the early mornings on the weekend before it has fully woken up? When people in the streets are still collecting themselves - their trash, their stories, their pride. First stop: a very charming neighborhood in East Putney (and with that name, it already felt as British as it gets). I kept repeating to myself "right, left, right, left" (when crossing the roads). Of course arriving that early meant, I actually woke my hosts up. But they were fine with that - admiring my fresh looks, my london hipster style (or so they said about my white shirt, my blue flannel trousers, and my vellum safari green leather jacket (enough self-shoulder tapping)). I told them we don't have time to linger - London was waiting to be explored. And so they dressed up quickly and we went out - to, of all places, first Notting Hill. But I was for the first time to see that London as charming as it was, has nothing of the solidity, stability, or millennia-propensity for aging as Rome did. Apparently the Brits are fond of bricks but the type of bricks that do not last for centuries but for A century, piping that is better left outside just in case something happened, and rooftops that better leak inside, than to delegate the water-allocation to the street canals. But it is perhaps one of those cities, like Paris and Venice, where a person should live once in their lifetime for several years. And then move on. Will see when my time for this might come.
I continued walking the afternoon (mostly in the area of king's cross station - beautiful area). The sun was shining, the birds were singing, people were jogging, others were smoking (after all it was the hipster area), and I was just absorbing trying not to behave like a foreigner (although, to an extent, in London everyone is a foreigner). I walked and walked and then went to the old city walking along the Thames, enjoying the tourists making fools of themselves, taking pictures (to document attendance) and enjoying the odd buildings (like the infamous "pe#is building" [censored for the kids]).
In the evening I went to a housewarming party of a friend bringing cornflakes (so that she never goes hungry), a beer (so that the house is always spirited), and garlic (to keep the evil spirits away). It quickly turned into a full-house party but I also needed to get to the other end of London for a commemorative anniversary celebration. We celebrated with a floating cheese cake (they say they didn't have enough time to freeze it properly). I had the strawberries that select over from the decoration, we all had a glass of red wine and went to bed early.
Day 2: Weather had turned Londoner but it was necessary - a whole weekend of sunshine would not have showed London in its true colors. I took the underground, observing people, guessing who came from where and who was doing their walk of shame, laughing at the tourists with their funny umbrellas (true Londoners aren't afraid of the drizzle), figuring out the physics of double-deckers. and picturing Dickensian characters. And that's when I felt like a character from a book myself. Isn't this the point of tourism - to lose yourself in the city, to become someone else for a while, to see the people around through a new pair of glasses, to drink that love potion that gets you high. And that's how I felt walking along a friend - high.
