Day 42: Sunshine on a Cloudy Day

Naturally, in honor of Roger's final, we decided to have a Crazy European Purchase Dress Up Day. I showed up to class in my hideous floral tights and black leather jacket, Jill wore her blue floral tourist shorts, and Christian sported his kilt. (I admit, Christian looked the most ... ridiculous. But perhaps the most attractive). And we laughed to oursleves as we sat silently at our computers, thinking about what we had learned and how we had changed...

***

"As I count down the days till I go home, my heart beats faster and faster. I can hardly contain my excitement, and my longing for the familiar faces, and streets, and structure of life. But the week before I came to London, I wrote an entry in my journal. One that I rediscovered a few days ago… one I did not remember writing. And I was truly surprised by what I read. 'I am suffocating. I can’t think anymore, and I am suffocating. I have got to get out and clear my head. I’ve got to get away from this—the day in and day out. I can’t stand it'.

Somehow, being away from home these last few weeks has made me realize how much I love my life—so much so that I’ve forgotten how stifled I felt when I left it. When I came here, I thought I was getting out for a brief time, and that, when I returned, I would be miserable and suffocated once again. But now, learning what I have learned about myself, growing in so many ways, and recognizing the love I have for home, I cannot imagine ever feeling that way again.

You see, I have learned that there is adventure in everything. There is beauty in walking home every day at five, in buying groceries, in scooping pistachio ice cream from the carton, or playing catch on a sunny day. I have learned that the beautiful things are the everyday things, and I learned it by being taken away.

This experience is one that I will remember with fondness. But the buzz and whir of London are nothing compared to the quiet simplicity of home. The memories I’ll cherish most are not the tours or museums, paintings or sculptures, all day sight-seeing, or hours of shopping. The best times were the slow times. Where I sat with friends and talked, and laughed, and breathed the same air, and heard the same birds, and felt the same wind. Those are the times I loved most, and those are the times I’ll remember. And maybe it’s because those were the times that I felt most at home.

I have learned that I love old things. Be they buildings, trinkets, books, or people.

I have learned that I shouldn’t be afraid of airports, buses, or atm’s.

I have learned that everything always works out, no matter how black and sticky the situation.

I have learned that London nights have lavender skies, and the Thames in the moonlight is a prettier picture than you could ever paint.

And most of all, I have learned that people are the most important thing. No matter where you are, or who you’re with.

People are what make this life worth living. They are the drop of sunshine on a cloudy day, and the milk in your cereal. And when you forget that, you are unhappy. Because the clouds just won’t let up, and your cereal is dry.

When I came here, I felt like I needed to get away. Now I realize I needed to get closer. Closer to the people that make me feel at home."

***

One by one, we finished our essays, packed up our things, and headed home. I met the girls on the second floor, and discussed the final, the weather, and our plans for the last few days. I needed 3 stamps to send the last few post cards, and as luck would have it, Cali had just 3 too many.

Robyn and I ran in front of the on coming taxi cabs to reach the red cylindrical post box on the other side. I let the post cards slip from my fingers, sliding into the blackness, knowing that The Queens Royal Air Mail would get them to their destination, relatively unscathed.

We continued onto the Gloucester tube station, slapped our Oyster cards onto the scanner, and walked through the mechanical gates as they swung open. We descended the familiar tiled stairs, sat down on a familiar metal bench, and watched the familiar stretch of tracks as we waited for the train to come.

There is a tell tale gush of wind, and then sound, just before a train arrives; a split second of anticipation, and then the lights appear at the bend in the tunnel. Everyone inches their way closer to the yellow line... and the air rushes past you, whipping the hair around your face, and nearly knocking you over as the train barrels its way to a stop. As the doors open, you can feel the tension as the feet surrounding you wait impatiently for their turn to board. Your eyes have to be quick, if you want a seat... and if it's a peak travel time, you have to claim the space around you or you're sure to suffocate.

And then the doors close... and open again...meaning someone has been trapped between them in an attempt to leap inside as the doors were closing. After a couple jerking movements, the doors shut, and the train starts to beat its way forward. The general synchrony of movement within the carriage is like an unpracticed dance team- up, down, up, down, slide to the left, jerk to the right... up, down, up, down, slide to the left, jerk to the right.

Everyone's eyes are averted, unless they have a travel companion.

Everyone's voices are hushed, unless they're American... or drunk.

You listen to the familiar, shrill sound as the doors open and close, open and close. And you hear the man saying, over and over again, "Please, mind the gap".

The destinations are recited over the intercom, barely audible above the rumble of the train:

"This is the District Line, to Tower Hill. Next stop, Sloane Square." ...
"This is the District Line, to Tower Hill. Next stop, Victoria. Alight here for Victoria and Circle lines"...
"This is the District Line, to Tower Hill. Next stop, St. James's Park."

Eventually, your stop arrives, and you alight with the mass of people, up the stairs and out the gates, back into the city, back into the sunshine.

***

Robyn and I were at Camden Market, once again. We ambled along, in and out of shops, talking and enjoying our last visit. We bought a little bucket of raspberries for 90p from a produce vendor, and snacked on them as we walked. By now we knew the streets, the in's and out's... and we knew how to work the system. I wanted to buy one of those lace scarves all the little Chinese women sold... You could find them in the boutiques too, but they were a lot cheaper on the street. And so, we wove through the little stands until we found the booth I had in mind, picked out a scarf, and haggled her down five pounds from her original price. By now we had a system... we worked as a team. And we could always bring the price down.

As we stood poking around in a bin of leather bracelets, a tall black girl, (probably in her twenties), interrupted our conversation. "Hey! I work at a salon called Hobb, just around the corner there, on the river, and we've got some Italian hairstylists here that need models. So if you'd like a free haircut, come on over around 2:00, yeah?"....

We looked at each other, and shrugged our shoulders as if to say... "Well, why not?"

I'd been dying to get my hair cut in London for a couple weeks now. And the word "free" can be rather irresistible. So after a few minutes, we walked along the river road till we found the salon.

I'm not sure what I was expecting... probably some sketchy, hole in the wall, get ready to get mugged sort of situation, I suppose. But what we found was a large, high class, well polished establishment, with huge windows and shining metal fixtures. The girl who had invited us earlier, ushered us in. We were led to a back room, seated, and offered water, tea, coffee, or juice. As we sipped our beverages, other women started trickling in, until there were ten of us, each sitting in our own salon style chair... a little unsure, a little giddy.

Finally two men walked into the room. They talked at a hundred miles per hour in a language we didn't understand, wore fashionable, yet casual clothes, and had just a hint of dark black scruff around the jaw. Mm... Italian.

One of the men clapped to get our attention, (as if he didn't have it already), and began to speak English in a thick Italian accent...

"Ladies! The first thing I would like to tell you is that we are excited to have you here. But if you are here for 'just a trim', you are in the wrong place. You need to be open minded... prepared to leave this place with a new look, a new hairstyle. It is alright with us if you do not want to stay. But IF you stay, you must allow us to broaden your horizons...."

(UH OH!... Robyn stared at me, wide eyed, fingering her long dark locks. I just nodded reassuringly and whispered "Don't worry, don't worry! It'll be great!"... but she just gulped.)

"Now, we will begin by having a consultation with each of you. We will ask what you like, or dislike about your current hairstyle, and then we will tell you what we'd like to do. We want you to be happy with the results, but we want you to be a little daring."

(And with that, they each went to opposite sides of the room, and began going down the rows of chairs, one by one. I watched as the man on my side got closer and closer, a welling sense of uncertainty in the pit of my stomach. He began drawing pictures on the mirrors, and as I listened to him talk, I heard "short" "buzzed" and "chopped"... I looked nervously at Robyn... and then nervously in my own mirror. And then, he reached my chair...)

"Hello Madame. May I feel your hair?"

"Umm... yeah? Sure."

(He began fingering my hair, testing its thickness and weight and whatever else a fancy hairstylist might test... and I sat paralyzed).

"Your hairstyle now... it is childish. Too young. You need something dramatic, attractive, chic."

"Umm... yeah, that sounds pretty good I guess."

"Good. It will be short. Very short."

(And with this, he began moving his hands around my head, showing me what it would look like. Or at least, that's what he thought he was doing. Unfortunately I was too nervous to really pay attention. So I just nodded my agreement and hoped it would turn out alright... afterall, the picture that he drew on the mirror looked good enough. If, cartoonistic.)

Finally, after each of the women had received their brief consultation, a sea of Italians entered the room. The student assigned to me was named Joey, and he didn't speak a darn lick of English. But he was nice enough, and we managed to say hello and nice to meet you in our own way.

We sat waiting, awkwardly, for the man in charge to explain to Joey what he was supposed to do to my hair. He finally reached my mirror, and spoke rapidly in Italian. The only words I caught were... "Molto Old School... Molto Class... Molto Chic"....

And then, we were off!

Boy, Joey worked slowly. But I sort of appreciated it... because A) it gave me time to part with my hair, and B) at least that meant he wasn't doing it wrong. (Except for my bangs of course. There was some confusion there. But after a relatively humorous exchange, in which the student stared at the master with a very quizzical look on his face for nearly five minutes as the master tried to explain... the bangs were a success.)

And Robyn kept her long luscious locks. Very much to her relief. And satisfaction.

I thanked Joey for his fabulous haircut, we took pictures together, and he gave me a great big hug, which made me rather glad. (I'm sure he was gay, but he was still attractive. Just like that Italian waiter in Little Italy last summer... Sheesh. I'm a sucker for Italians).

After our haircuts were finished, it was nearly five o'clock. We hopped on the tube and actually missed the Embankment tube station because we were talking. THAT had never happened before. But I guess we'd just become so comfortable with our surroundings that we stopped paying attention like we should. We looped back at the next station, so that we could make one last trip to Cranberry. (I needed my weekly mango and yovita raspberry fix, one last time). We flirted with the guy working there, as usual, and then skipped away with our devilishly delicious treats.

We alighted at the High Street Kensington tube station and grabbed a Cornish Pasty on the way out. We walked quickly, enjoying the familiarity of our surroundings...and then it was up the stairs and in the commons to study for our last final.

I had horrible writers block, and my last paper just wouldn't come. So Jill and I finally gave up and walked to Tesco around ten thirty. I wanted some Ribena Blackcurrent juice, and a break from our computers sounded like a great idea.

But, of course, when we got home, we ran into Richie... Well, we wanted him to show us the dungeon (the boy's basement flat) because we'd never seen it... and of course Jason showed up and he wanted to talk about Hair, and then Allen wanted to talk about MY hair, and then Christian just wanted to talk. So, needless to say, we ended up pretending to study downstairs with the boys, and really just hanging out.

It was a good way to spend the night before a final.

And I don't say that with any kind of sarcasm. ... There is a time to prepare, and it was long past. It was better to just enjoy the night, and cross our fingers. Because who's going to remember what they got on a final years from now? Not me. I'd much rather remember a night in the dungeon, laughing and joking and living in London... being close to the people that make me feel at home. Because after all... they are the milk in my cereal. They are the drop of sunshine on a cloudy day...