Crazy For You

One of the main reasons I wanted to visit London was the people. It’s the people who make a location distinct, so I knew my London would be dictated by the people who live in it. I knew the basics from films and television shows, but it’s hard to get the true nature of an area from one-dimensional dramas and half-hour sketch comedies. For the past month I have planted myself in various cafes and pubs, nursing my coffees until the battery in my laptop runs out, watching and listening to the real London.

I’ve come to realize that we are all the same when it comes to the big things - we all have the same dreams and desires and wants and needs - but it is the little things that make the difference. It’s the little things that define a culture. If taken on their own these little things seem insignificant...but when you place them next to the multitude of other little things you can see just how different people are.

I have met a number of people here, and I suppose I should be grateful that most have been very kind and enjoyable - but statistics are an annoying fact of life. You can’t have a 100% hit ratio. Histograms don’t work that way.

In general, the people here are open and friendly. They sit down next to you and before you know it you are engulfed in their conversation. It’s just the way people roll in London. It’s in their nature to talk, and they enjoy it to the fullest.

There are two categories of people I’ve met in London...the nice people who talk with you and the crazy people who talk to you - then won’t go away.

There is a distinct difference here when you sit in a public place. I’ve heard from my trusted locals that the group mentality is the English way. There is no privacy when you are sitting on the streets of London...if there is an empty seat next to you, it’s fair game.

For the most part, the Sitters have been genuinely kind and helpful...but it’s hard to tell the difference between the ones who will chat casually with you and the ones who will drink too much and propose marriage. Loudly. I’ve had three drunken proposals of marriage so far, so by now I am an expert. The first time it happened I sat in numbed shock, humiliated and dumbfounded. Now, however, I know to shake my head, gather my things, and make a hasty exit. Apparently drunken marriage proposals are par for the course in London, so I now I feel like I’ve been initiated in some strange, embarrassing way.

Then there are the crazies who run in packs. They seem nice and friendly, but then one of the girls will start yelling at her boyfriend or the guys will start yelling incoherently at people passing by and things quickly turn pear-shaped. Before I know it, the people around me are getting chucked into the streets and I have to scoot away from them to avoid being towed in their wake. It’s fun to see it from across the room, but not so fun to be caught in the middle.

Still, most of the people here have been lovely. I’ve carved a little niche in this area, and that’s the best part about being here. I leave at the end of the week, but maybe one of the locals will talk about me to another visitor as they talk about the people who have preceded me, then they will carry me back home with them as I carry home the ones before me...even if it is just a thought or an image filed away in the back of the mind.

I have left my web-trail here. My tendrils will fan out in silvery threads.

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Accomplishment for the day - I finally got that autograph from Blog 11. In fact, I got two. It was weird...I felt like such a fanboi.

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