This is an obvious parable but yesterday I went for a walk and was again reminded to pay attention to how I look at things. It was a day in full February glory as the hours provided a near constant speckle of snowflake with no real accumulation. Having traveled so much already in 2017, I was looking forward to a weekend doing nothing but tending to some life admin. And then I woke up and saw that there was snow in the air. I shed my comfy bathrobe and opted to take an extended morning outdoors, the sharp cold in the air be damned.
In my mind I often grip about how London is so drab and colorless, so seemingly uninspired. It’s admittedly not my first city of choice, despite the fact that I am grateful for the opportunity to live here. Indeed, my first stop in leaving my flat was to the local farmer’s market, a place where I have managed to carve my own niche into the community. Strolling to the dairy stand I said hello to the purveyor, and even accepted an invitation to come inside and find shelter from the winter elements.
As I stood behind the counter and greeted the bundled up shoppers, I thought about how comfortable it felt to be here on a Saturday morning. Even though I’m frequently out of town, a few weeks back I had filled in here, and learned what it was like to sling some of England’s finest milk and cheese. I still can’t keep straight whether the products are homogenized not pasteurized (or vice versa), but the interaction with people is really the best. Standing together again now, we looked at each other in amusement as an aging pair of quirky twins chirped back and forth to each other. Then some regulars came by and we chatted about our respective travel plans to France. They let me know that my upcoming holiday in northern France might be hampered by some nuclear fallout. News I could use.
Soon I was off again and into a headwind of snow. I’m still not running, but on weekends I endeavor to increase the mental mapping of my environs. Making my way south, I curved along chalky brown residences and came upon a woman wearing a bright purple jacket and beret. As it turns out, she’s another market regular with whom I often sit alongside with my neighbors as we chat about the concerns of our day. We stopped and chatted for a few minutes before moving on to stay warm. The unexpected interaction was a pleasant addition to a world where I am very much a foreigner.
The streets were still largely empty, and I didn’t blame them as my nose was running and I continually fished for the tissue in my pocket. This was the third cold day in a row, the third day where we had seen some snow. As I crossed the ugly artery of Finchley Road, I decided to make my way to Camden town— usually a no-go on the weekends due to the crowds, but on this morning I wanted to see how the pace was shaping up.
I know many Americans who are living in this city, and it’s very interesting to see how they do London. There is truly no shortage of combinations for discovery, and with so many museums, pubs, parks and airports there is no right or wrong way to try and do it. All you have to do is ensure that you get out.
Camden isn’t too far away from my flat, and what I like about the neighborhood is that when you travel by foot you are gradually brought into a deeper color palette that contrasts nicely with London’s oyster whitewashed sky. My first real hint of nonconformity came in what looked like a public display of artwork: a painting of geometric abstraction with black shapes set against a white background. It was nailed to a brick wall and a passing glance had me appreciating the contribution while at the same time not quite sure what to make of it. I continued to walk, passing a few more of these pieces along the way. By then my thoughts had drifted on and I’d decided to check out a small vegan bakery located in the heart of the famous food nexus.
What I really like about Camden is that it expresses itself as an unapologetic open air market for the citizens of London and beyond. People-watching might have been interesting at the farmer’s market, but it is even better here. With the state of the world as it currently lays, with those possessing megaphones and sometimes proclaiming things that are downright polarizing, it’s nice to find these types of Safe Spaces.
As I crossed under the bridge and arrived at the threshold of Camden Lock, I took a look around and noted that the streets weren’t as jammed as they normally were. This was probably on account of the weather, and sure enough my nose had started to complain about its raw state. I decided to head into the Lock area in search of the bakery.
In the market building I found and purchased a cookie for takeaway. Really the only practical way to consume food in Camden is on foot while ungracefully negotiating bus traffic, other humans and yes the greatest risk to our lives— the smartphone. Munching on the banana and chocolate chip snack, I checked my phone to ensure I was steering a true course before pocketing it again and commencing the return journey.
As it turns out, I started off by retracing my last steps. Still blotting a progressively red nose, I once again came upon the black and white tableaux nailed to the walls. This time, however, my perspective was different. I came upon them, now able to take them in as a collective. From this angle, the point of the paintings was obvious. I felt instantly stupid as the I saw that they formed a sort of photonegative that read “Camden Market” when strung together. I chuckled to myself as I walk by each one again, now unable to really see them as I first did when passing by.
Just like in other places where I have lived, I know an American here who is very much bound up in a frame of mind that prevents him from getting out and living a life in this city. The person’s time here is limited, and even though so many invitations and opportunities have been extended, he has willfully declined many of them. It’s as if he is stuck someplace else, waiting for life to take hold in a way that his convention thinks it should. From where I stand, life is streaming on by and to a fault he is stubbornly keeping his eyes trained on his feet, bemoaning the fact that they aren’t going anywhere good.
Am I accurate or even fair when I paint this person as stuck? Maybe not. All I know is that I too have experienced moments where I’ve been caught up in a long, dark hall of thinking where I was unwilling to examine or reconsider things. It’s easy to get trapped in your own head, in your own house. Sometimes what you need most is a jolting change in perspective to turn things on their side and finally see what you’re missing.
By the time I got home, the snow had ceased to fall and my arms had grown heavy with purchases of soup, bok choy, and bananas. As I reached for my bathrobe, I still laughed as I thought about my encounter with new eyes on the Camden streets. As it turns out, I’m always learning new things— and this most often happens right when I think I’ve got everything deconstructed to perfection.
If I had opted to stay home all day, glued to my computer and sucked into the wonderful feed of online TV, I know I would have lost out on all of the treasures encountered during my modest Saturday walk. Insignificant little things that, when scooped up together over the course of a single morning, ultimately became quite priceless in their bounty.
You don’t learn or change until you get yourself out into the world. London as it turns out—and yes everyplace else—simply has too many colors for us to shut down and wait for someone or something to draw us out to see what we’re missing. I really feel like I live here— and even if it’s just me wandering around, I really feel like I’m living.