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.”