On my way to pick up dinner last night, I decided to take a detour down the street. It was around seven o'clock and the sun was just beginning to set. There was a slight chill in the air, but nothing an American Apparel Unisex Flex Fleece Zip Hoody couldn't handle. It was really quite nice. I passed a few restaurants and shops I hadn't seen before, including a few fruit stands that looked quite promising. The issue of eating fruit as been one of contention in my flat, particularly in regards to not eating enough of it, the result being scurvy. So I was glad to know these stands had be covered.
I continued down the street, hands in my pockets, when a man with a beard approached.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes?"
"Have you seen a basketball court around?"
"Um, yeah... no. Maybe a little farther down the street?"
"In Fulham?"
"Yeah, Fulham."
As the man thanked me and moved away, I reflected on the interaction. It was the second one of its kind that day, the first occurring earlier at a Tube station. A well-dressed woman holding a small, plastic tube map quietly asked, "Excuse me, do you know which train I take to get to ***?"
A word about Tube station names.
Some make sense. Wimbledon on the District Line, London Bridge on the Jubilee and Piccadilly Circus on the Piccadilly. Others do not. Tooting Broadway, Goodge Street and Croxley sound as if a three year old's babbling was recorded and played back as they decided on names. A few are very specific, such as the astoundingly brief Cutty Sark for Maritime Greenwich, while St. John's Wood may either be a forest or a very good double entendre. Either way, minding the gap at Cockfosters is much more interesting than simply getting off at 42nd St.
Regardless, I was a bit confused. Just the other day, an older Asian couple asked a similar question as I waited for my train at Earl's Court. Did I give off a London air? Was I so brimming with Tube-riding confidence that these travelers felt compelled to seek me out, ignoring the hundreds of other riders standing around? Likewise, did the bearded man think me so London savvy to know the location of a basketball court in the winding streets of Fulham?
Little did these people know that every time I leave my flat I do so with the gruesome knowledge I may never return. Things get sketchy here earlier than in America. I still only just know my way to the Tube and from there the London Centre seems like an impossible destination. One day I know I'll look left than right while crossing the street and be hit by a BMW or Mercedes. Buying liquor is like crossing the border with marijuana stashed away behind the steering wheel. Play it cool and they'll accept the American ID. Show even the slightest hesitation and kiss that Guinness goodbye. My greatest fear is that everyone will see just how un-British I am, even before I open my mouth to say AD-ver-tize-ment, and have me deported for this or that.
The weight of these interactions and fear of life in a big city were with me as I turned to cross the street after watching the bearded man walk away.
For those who don't know, London is littered with Zebra Crossings. In appearance, these crossings are exactly the same as cross walks in America. In practice, these crossings are different as cars actually stop for pedestrians. And so it happened that a large, red, double-decker bus screeched to a halt, just for me.
I couldn't help but feel a little bit special, until I saw a little old lady pushing a basket on wheels past the cars of North End Road, just as Moses parted the Red Sea. At least people ask me for directions, I thought.
It may seem like a little thing, but crossing the street with the full knowledge every car and motorbike will stop, as long as you're in the designated area, is quite exhilarating. The last time I felt that way was in Wisconsin, where one could probably get away with murder, lest the jury feel guilty for making the defendant sad and unhappy.
All over London I have noticed this heightened sense of courtesy.
A woman briskly pushing a stroller down the sidewalk says, "Excuse me" to an older gentleman in front of her, walking considerably slower. "Pardon me, ma'am," he says, stepping aside.
A construction worker moving quickly through the aisles of Tesco knocks a few boxes of cake of the shelf and the woman nearest to him helps clear them away.
A young man sitting on the Tube gives his seat to an elderly woman. He sits again after she leaves, only to get up once more when another such woman boards moments later.
It's not that this doesn't happen back home. It's just that it happens so rarely I pay more attention to it here. And there really is no explanation. Feel free to bring technology and its consuming effect on us into it if you want. Or the fast pace of America versus the leisurely stroll of dreary, old London. I'm not sure it matters exactly why people are (or seem to be) more polite. It's just something we can all work to be better at.
Now if you excuse me, I see some lost tourists outside my window. I'm sure they'll need directions to the Tube.
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