Regret's Greasy Bone

Have you ever seen someone, and in that moment, everything stopped except your heart spinning in your chest?

That is what happened last Sunday at 11:00am, standing in a crowd of people in Hyde Park Corner, waiting for the London walking tour to begin.

I’m standing there talking with my brother and his friend, looking at the sky, hoping it doesn’t rain, shuffling papers in my notebook, when I look up, and I see him.

Dark hair. Bright eyes. Soft smile. Angular jaw scruffed in 5 o’ clock shadow. Brown leather jacket.

That’s him. I have no idea who ‘him’ is; I just know that is him.

“Anna, run right up to him and say something. Run up to him right now or regret this moment.”

But I just stand there, watching him get his yellow ticket, lining up in the queue, being placed in the same tour group as me.

“This is your chance. Go up to him!”

But I don’t go up to him. I just go with the group.

And for the next three hours, I watch him in stolen glances, eyes flickering from tour guide to my notebook to him to some statue or building back to him. With each glance I feel the lost seconds slipping past, and I do nothing, chatting, smiling, talking to every person in the group except him. We make eye contact four times. We stand next to each other five times.

“Anna, what are you doing? Talk to him!”

Silence.

The tour ends outside Westminster Abbey. After a round of applause for Ed the tour guide and after paying our tips, the group begins dispersing. My brother, his friend, and I take a picture with Ed, and in the second before the camera flashes, I promise myself that when I turn around I will walk right up to that boy and talk to him. What will I say? I’ll decide when I get there.

Smile.

Click.

Flash.

I turn around, and standing in the green grass of Westminster Abbey, he is nowhere to be found. I rush to the sidewalk, looking right and left. I turn around, searching the courtyard. I go back to the street, scanning the other side, straining for a glimpse of a brown leather jacket.

Nothing. Gone.

I walk back to my brother and his friend, punching myself inside, regret burning my mouth, hot and bitter.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a willed fantasy. But maybe, just maybe it was something.

We go to a pub for lunch, and sitting there, sipping my water, I let it go. Because what else can you do? But before I release it, I promise myself that if I ever see him again, then without hesitating or thinking twice, I will walk straight up to him and talk to him.

But there may never be a next time.

But if I met him once, then doesn’t that automatically increase my chances of meeting him again? These paths of life we walk are not straight lines. They are swerving, twisting highways, diving and intertwining in dizzying webs. And since our highways have crossed once, then they must be close-by, and even if they are heading in opposite directions, then they are at least connected now, and life has a way of pulling us full-circle.

If nothing else, it was a lesson learned, the only scrap of kindness given to us by regret.

At the meeting point for the London walking tour. Don't try looking for him. This picture was taken in one of the minutes before he arrived.

6 Things England Can Learn from America

6. Driving on the right side of the road

Come on, England. Stop trying to be special.

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5. Less CCTV

CCTVs are closed circuit television cameras that the English have decided to wire the entire country with. They are everywhere— campus, underground stations, subways, trains, museums, churches, streets, shops. A police officer told me that in the Birmingham city center (or what Americans call downtown), if I moved 20 feet in any direction, then I would be on a different CCTV camera. Basically, unless I am in my flat with the curtains shut, then I am under recorded surveillance. Civil liberty violation? George Orwell 1984? Does this really not disturb anyone else?

On campus

4. Southwestern Food

England does not contain Southwestern food. Literally, it does not exist within its boarders. This is a problem, because Southwestern food is my favorite food. I can eat Southwestern food every day for lunch and dinner, and I have gone through numerous 3-month spurts over the past five years where I have done exactly that. Does it ever get old? No. Do I ever desire something different? Never.

When I came to England, I naturally planned on continuing my love affair with Southwestern food. So I went to the grocery store to buy the necessary items only to pay for foods of disappointment. I went to restaurants labeling themselves Mexican or Southwestern only to pay for foods of lies. 

Since Southwestern food is not difficult to make and since I do not believe that the English are utterly incompetent, I have come to the conclusion that the necessary ingredients do not exist within the English boarder. Moral of the story: globalization is a myth.

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nom! nom! nom!

3. Thanksgiving
The greatest holiday of the year—a day of thanks, family, friends, rest, and food. Few concepts more beautiful exist in this world.

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cheese!

2 & 1. Water fountains. Believe me; this is worthy of two categories.

The first week here, I feared that I would perish from dehydration before the month ended. I could not find a single water fountain. They were not near the bathrooms or in the hallways like they are in every public building in the United States.

After a few days, I asked a girl where a water fountain was. She directed me to a large fountain in the middle of a courtyard with a mermaid statue jumping out of its center. Not exactly what I was looking for. Undiscouraged, I continued my search, but after a week of not finding even a broken pipe sticking out of a wall, something inconceivable began forming in my mind. After trying to distance myself from the reality-tilting thought for a few days, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Turning to a flat mate, I asked:

“Does England not have water fountains?”

“Water fountains?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, water fountains.” I said, talking faster. “You know, you press a button and water comes out and you drink it.”

“Oh, you mean drinking fountains? I’ve never seen them here. I thought they only existed in American movies and television shows.”

Sucker punched.

As survival dictates, “adapt or die.” So I have adapted, filling my water container in bathroom faucets and discovering the English water machine, which is like a water cooler without the big tub of water on top. But the tale does not end there. Something unexpected, something magnificent occurred this Sunday in London at the British Museum.

While looking at larger-than-life statues extracted from the ancient Greek Parthenon, I received a call.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Hello, Anna.” The familiar voice replied. “This is Nature. I’m going to need you to respond to me within the next hour. Okay? Your welcome. Talk to you in a few.”

Bossy as ever. I thought, hanging up.

Thirty minutes later, I followed a sign pointing down a set of stairs to the toilet, and as my foot left the last step and turned the corner, I saw it. Beautiful. Gleaming. Right outside the bathroom entrance. Angel choirs sang and time slowed down. A water fountain. I just stared at it, mesmerized. Slowly, I approached it, reaching out my fingertips to stroke its smooth, shining surface. Then, moving my hand around the nozzle, I pressed the button. Clear liquid shot forth, a perfect arch, softly splashing the surface, pooling in ripples. I lowered my mouth to its stream, cool liquid hitting my lips, and drank.

Afterwards, I wondered since almost everything in the museum is a stolen artifact from another culture, was that water fountain a stolen artifact from the United States? Don’t tell them I touched it.

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6 Things America Can Learn from England

6. Metric System.

Come on, America. This just makes sense. Stop trying to be special.

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5. Electric Kettle.
A brilliant invention that I did not know existed until I came to England. Fill with water. Flick a switch. Vavoom! Instant boiling water. Not a tea drinker? No problem. Use it to boil water for pasta, oatmeal, hot chocolate, rice, a warm bath, chemistry experiments, medieval castle defense reenactments.

It's amazing!

4. “I can’t be bothered.”

The single greatest line in the English culture. Examples of its usage:

“I was supposed to write an essay last night, but I couldn’t be bothered.”

“I need to go to the gym, but I can’t be bothered.”

It is a brilliant line, because it is not an excuse and it is not a complaint. It simply states the facts, “I can’t be bothered.” America, please take note.

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3. Tea Time
I cannot count how many times I have been invited over to someone's house "for a tea and a chat." It is a beautiful tradition-- just taking time out of the day to enjoy a warm mug, community, and conversation. America, we have a lot to learn.

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2. Public Transportation

In the United States, unless you are in a big city like New York City or Boston, a car is necessary to get to one place to another. In many cases, if you do not have a car, then you cannot have a job, because you cannot get to a job. But without a job, you cannot earn money to buy a car. Vicious cycle. I have been in England for two months now, and I have not been inside a private car or even had the need to be inside a private car. I get everywhere by bus, train, subway, taxi, or even, yes, on foot. Walking 30 minutes one way is not uncommon here. It won’t kill you; it will actually make you healthier. I hope to add bike to my list soon.

Walking to class. I place safe walking paths under public transportation.

1. Harvest Morn Cereal

Is it legal to marry cereal? How about a civil union?

True love.

London Part II of IV

Sunday, October 24, 2010

“This is the Central Line terminating at Ealing Broadway. The next station is Bethnal Green,” the mechanically paced woman’s voice broadcasts over the tube.

I sink deeper into my seat. My body trying to process why it is not horizontal and further why it is not cocooned inside a warm duvet. It is 7:00am, and even though I am underground, I know it is still dark outside. I look around. There are more people on the tube than I expected on a Sunday morning, even if the majority of seats are empty. No one stands. No one talks. Most read newspapers or nod off to their ipods.

“Arriving at Liverpool Street.” The woman announces, the only one fully awake.

Closing my eyes and resting my head against the humming window, images of yesterday flicker through my mind.

Standing in the opening of the Mile End station, stealing a few minutes of its faint warmth in the dropping temperature of the London dusk, I wait, looking around.

Where is he?

A group of boys trip out of the fast food chicken restaurant next to the station, laughing, pants sagging. A bus rattles past. A woman in a red coat, arms crossed, waits on the other side of the street in front of a  faded brown building. In the dying light, worn houses can just be seen through the gaps between the low buildings. Sparsely trafficked road. Homogeneous lights. The glamour of the London city center seven tube stations behind me. The shift is tangible.

Where is he? Did I miss him? Dialing his number, the ringing goes straight to voicemail. He must still be on the tube.

A man wearing a tweed hat walks out of the station. He spots the woman in the red coat. She smiles, waving excitedly. Barely glancing at traffic, he runs across the street to her, suitcase flying off the pavement. I see him make it to the other side. A bus drives in front of me, metal and glass blocking my view.

“Anna!” Voice booming, the boy I have been waiting for jumps in front of me, and I scream, laughing, throwing my arms around him. The boy who I met running cross-country with in eighth grade. The boy who was the only person other than myself who did every theatre class and play and musical in high school. The boy whose house I regularly crashed at before rehearsal, watching bad MTV and talking with his parents. The boy who made me laugh every day until my abs ached. The boy who got to experience with me and with six other people what friendship really means during those make-or-break-you years of high school. The boy who I stood next to when we threw our graduation caps into the air. The boy who the last time I saw him we were sitting in Moe’s restaurant in Tennessee, USA eating tortilla chips and talking about the fear and excitement of leaving everything known and established behind to cross the ocean and study abroad— him in London, me in Birmingham.

I am now hugging this same boy on a London sidewalk 3,500 miles from that Moe’s.

“The next station is Bank.”

From the Mile End station, we walk to his flat, laughing, falling into the easy banter of old friends. And for the first time in a month, I am with someone who knows me. I mean really knows me, and I know him, no small talk or introductions or explanations of why I am here or what I am studying. We have been friends since we were 13. We are now 20. He has been to my home; I have been to his home. He knows my family; I know his family. We share the same friends, inside jokes, and a thousand memories. And it feels so impossibly good. It’s like putting on an old, bally sweatshirt (or jumper as the English say) and curling next to a fire with a comedic book and a hot cup of tea.

“The next station is St. Paul’s.”

We eat dinner at his flat. Pesto pasta for me. Turkey sandwich for him. And then we walk to the movie theatre (or cinema as the English say) and see The Social Network for a bargain 3 quid. Walking back to his flat, he asks me, “Can you believe that we are walking down a street in London together? Isn’t that crazy?”

“I know! I can’t believe it,” I say, squeezing his arm, making sure that all of this is real. That I am in London. That I am studying abroad for nine months in England. That I left the college that I love as though it were a best friend for the unknown thousands of miles away. That somewhere inside me breathes a courage that I am just now discovering. That in this moment I am living all of that and walking down a London sidewalk with someone who I met when I was 13 at a small school in Tennessee, someone who became a best friend those seven years ago and remains one to this day. No. I absolutely cannot believe it.

“The next station is Chancery Lane.”

Back at his flat, we talk, eventually falling asleep, and then wake up early to catch the tube—him to Bath, me to the heart of London. Now, standing inside the Mile End station, we are back where we started, full circle.

“Take the Central Line to get to Tottenham. Westbound.” He tells me pointing to the platform.

“I will. Thanks.”

“It was so great to see you.”

“I know. It was great seeing you. I still can’t believe it. Have fun in Bath. Be safe.”

“Have fun in London. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

We snap a picture. Hug. He takes the Eastbound tube. I take the Westbound.

“The next station is Holborn. Change here for the Piccadilly Line.”

It still doesn’t seem real.

“The next station is Tottenham Court Road. Change here for the Northern Line.”