Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 4

The freestanding transit booth is nothing but concrete and glass on the outside, yet the activity is inside with the two men in obvious important conversation among the piles of reports and schedules piled four to five inches tall. I waited patiently at the round stainless steel opening to allow my inquiry to travel inside a work place that must have been occupied by the men’s grandfathers. After all, in this country the highly sought after security of a government job will usually be inherited to the next generation.

There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.

I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.

I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.

The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.

I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.

The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”

I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.

I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”

When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.

I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.

I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.

I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.

to be continued.....

Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?