A Love Letter to London

There’s just too much goddamned stimuli. You breathe in things, (sometimes not so nice things), you hear things, you feel things. I can’t get over life in a big city. Today on the bus, I saw Israeli children playing cards with Japanese children, and Muslim African girls chatting it up with Middle Eastern girls. All of them, together. Isn’t this how the world should be? Well it was, on the bus. The air was thick with the smell of body odor and kids were laughing and one even said, “that’s so gay,” in a thick, Arabic accent. When I got lost for the first time, a really nice African man tried to help me in gesticulations. It was all we had since he was speaking half in his native tongue and half in what I guess was supposed to be English, but was actually too intense for me to decipher. But what great expressions he had and how emphatically he motioned his arms. There was such warmth behind his eyes and I knew he was so proud to be helping me. Someone not from around here as well, he probably knew more than me what it was like to be lost. I thanked him a million times, waved and then I was off to getting lost. I kind of think it’s a blessing getting lost so much. Not only do I then learn where I really need to go, but also, my faith in humanity is promptly restored. As frustrated as I am with the streets and the transit and the congestion of this city, I am awed and amazed by its people. Every time I want to cry or feel bad about my day, someone comes along and throws kindness all around me and I am cured. Most times, I don’t even ask for help. People just see me all confused and come to me. Imagine that. It happens to me all the time. Even in the crowded tube stations, a man who worked there walked right up to me. He said, “I’ve seen you walking round and round here, and wanted to help.” On the bus to Jo’s (the third bus I had to take to get there), a Phillipino woman helped me with elaborate directions, and a Jamaican woman took the baton when she got off then helped me with the last leg of my journey. She stood with me at the bus stop until she was sure I had it all figured out. While there, a woman overheard her explaining to me what to do and when the Jamaican woman left, took me under her wing immediately. She was a North Londoner, full of pink eyeshadow and black mascara drawn across her eyelids as if by a toddler. She had on a leopard fur coat and tall black heeled boots. She needed a makeover badly, but only aesthetically. For all her gruff dialect and her rough hewn disposition, she was like a mother hen to me. All this, and I didn’t even ask! When I finally got on bus number three I asked if the bus driver could let me know when I had to get off on my street. He asked me to remind him when we got to the top of a hill. I did so and then he began to laugh, telling me he’d already forgot. “This job makes you crazy,” he said. “It makes you crazy.” I tried my best to empathize with him and suddenly I realized, no one is ever around to help him. People yell at bus drivers. There are screaming kids who cause problems, people who don’t have a ticket, traffic problems galore. He has bad days every day there in the gritty city. I hope that me just standing there was his bit of help for the day. Goodness knows I’ve got lots of favors to return. London, today I saw a new side of you. Your people.

I understand now why they have their noses in the papers or rush past you across the street. It’s hard life, city life. At 10 p.m. there were men in suits just getting off work. It’s a long day, fast paced, everyone for themselves kind of lifestyle. I understand, though. You’re tired. Maybe even a bit cynical. Cities can jade you. But I see you underneath it all. Your people gleam like freshly polished silver.