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Travel 1510

London and the trials of transit: One may tire of the journey but there is lots of life in the capital
1510travel
London Calling

The grand old city broods beneath its heavy, grey cloak of cloud, oblivious to my plight. Below the streets the magnificent machine fondly known as The Tube has been thwarted.

“Repairs on the tracks, love,” I am informed in a thick, London accent. Thousands of displaced passengers are bustling about on the uneven paving stones, tiny commuter ants rushing to and fro between the stately old brick buildings that flank the city’s busy streets.

I am standing amid the confusion of commuting hour thrown into uproar just outside the sprawling station of Kings Cross, whose underground tentacles radiate for blocks in each direction. Just finding an exit that placed me above ground was a momentous achievement! Without the streamlined and foolproof underground train network to whisk me back to my aunt and uncle’s house in East Finchley, my limited confidence is drained. I am reduced to an insignificant Canadian tourist, very small indeed, alone and lost in one of the largest cities in the world!

The roaring double-deckers are the only splashes of colour against the typical London backdrop of grayish hues. Even the locals wear black. Suits and ties, briefcases, smart business-like skirts and high heels. It’s all business on the streets of London when the offices close and the worker bees spill onto the streets and down into the subways. Fumbling for change, I step aboard a shiny, red bus purportedly headed in the direction of Camden Town while experienced commuters stream past and scan their Oyster Cards , the newest innovation in travel cards.

Equipped with a microphone and a speaker, some cracker has stationed himself comfortably on a busy street corner, and is tirelessly spewing verbal rubbish of a religious nature into the masses. There are no business suits in Camden Town. His indifferent audience is adorned with multiple piercings in unlikely places, Mohawks, thick, black eyeliner and studded leather. Overwhelming crowds push in all directions, but the locals are oblivious to the stifling madness of the city streets. They talk into cell phones, push past beggars and deftly negotiate the crowds, content in their own, tiny space. I retire to a busy pub on the corner, partly to procure a pint of beer before tackling the next leg of my journey; partly to escape the insensible babblings of the cracker on the corner.

Leaning nonchalantly on the bar of the convivial English pub, a wooly Canadian trying to blend in among starched collars, dressy jackets and shiny shoes, I try to look as though I belong. In London, Lululemon is not the height of fashion and no one wears sneakers to the pub. I procure a pint, and in typical British fashion, do not tip the bartender. I tried to once. Out of habit, really. The portly Briton behind the bar became quite flustered and adamantly refused the money. Now I keep my change.

Quickly draining my pint, and noting that darkness will fall soon, I step gingerly back onto the streets of Camden Town. The market is in full swing and money is changing hands. Jeans, T-shirts, leather boots, belts, bras, smoking paraphernalia — it is all displayed outside the endless rows of shops whose lanky proprietors lean nonchalantly in their doorframes, coolly shooting cigarette smoke into the crowds, while trying aggressively to entice potential customers inside. I avoid eye contact with the fanatic with the microphone, whose verbal diatribe has shifted from religion to something of a political nature, and descend into the underground station.

The Northern Line of the London Underground branches in two directions: one towards Edgeware and the other, High Barnet. My stop is on the latter, the one out of service. Four short stops on the Edgeware branch takes me to Golders Green, where I am instructed to board another bus bound for East Finchley, my destination. Wedging myself between two black suits whose faces are hidden behind typical London newspapers of distinct tabloid flavour, I hang on as the train roars through the city’s subterranean labyrinth of tunnels. Mingling in the stifling air of the packed carriage are the smells of sweat and perfume and warm bodies. I amuse myself by studying the Tube map, posted conveniently on the wall. Cockfosters, Tooting Bec, Tottenham Court Road, Pudding Mill Lane, Bromley-by-Bow, Shoreditch… The British do come up with some curious names for their streets and suburbs!

“The next station is… Golders Green,” the friendly female voice over the loudspeaker informs the passengers. “Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” Regulars hardly glance up from their books as they step onto the busy platform and I am swept along with them, up the escalator and into the gathering dusk.

From the upper deck of the bus, my eyes strain to discern any familiar London landmarks. The tricky part is knowing when to get off! Darkness has fallen and lights are twinkling from the endless rows of shops and homes. There are no spaces, just solid rows of brick, grand, permanent and ancient, flanking the winding streets. In the limited space that is England, spaces between buildings are a frivolity, entirely unnecessary. Every inch is utilized. The buses are bigger than those at home and the lanes are narrower. Gardens are a luxury, a free standing house — extravagant!

Presently, we round a corner and East Finchley Station comes into view. Finally! Familiar territory! Collecting my bag as the bus draws to a halt I hurry down the winding steps and spill on to the pavement. Never had I been so pleased to see the High Street, the Old White Lion Pub and Cherry Tree Woods. With a spring in my step and my confidence restored, I walked, perhaps even strutted, purposefully in the direction of Fordington Road. I had made it! Perhaps I would even be back in time for tea!