Buskerville

Last night we went out for dinner, to Jamie Oliver, not too far away. My daughter Marie likes Jamie Olivers. Those restaurants are a bit fancier than she can afford on her student budget on her own, and she adores spaghetti. It wasn’t a long night though. One glass of not too remarkable white for me, just a coke for her. She had classes early the next morning. She would never consider to miss them for something not life threatening. I do not have to worry about Marie, not a bit. The next morning I make up the sleeping sofa she gave me in her cramped room, make myself another cup of instant coffee and head out the door. After having pulled the door shut I remember to check if I got the Oyster Card. Panic. I have no key. But there it is, lipstick, Kleenex, phone, Oyster Card. Marie explained to me how to get to Canary Wharf. I walk out of her apartment building, taking the walkway directly to my right, passing the dumpsters on my right, get to the road, I forgot the name of – but it must be just this one in front of me – cut across and look for the entry to the tube, which should be 300 meters to the left. After maybe 150 meters I still can’t see any sign. Maybe she meant to the right. The middle-aged man I am asking is not so helpful. He wants to know, if I intend to take the DRL? No, I want to take the tube, I tell him. Whatever a DRL may be. I don’t ask him that. He looks at me for a second as if to see if I mean it, then directs me to turn around, to march to the very end of this street, sticking to it, even though it is curving to the right and then to the left and to the right again, then taking the next left, under the bridge and there already would be the steps down to the entry of what sounds like North Gren Station. I ask him, if he is sure, but he is.

I should be used to getting lost. The problem is, there never forms a complete picture in my mind of how things look like. Sometimes there is an inkling of a mind map. I see a street corner, an intersection, a bakery… but never the tunnel I am supposed to see, never the second light, where the road should split. It has been suggested to me to engage more, to be more interested in what there is to see. In the end, it is me who gets lost, who suffers, right? A young woman I once met in an art seminar we both took advised me to think positive. ‘There is no getting lost, all there is, is thoroughly exploring new surroundings.’ Fact is, I feel lost. I don’t enjoy it. I never know more about the surroundings afterwards. Though the only really bad times are those when I am supposed to be somewhere on time, meet someone at an exact place, at a clearly agreed upon time. Mostly I take a cab then. Here in London that is too expensive. As soon as possible my kids want to set up an Huber account for me. I don’t push. It will have to learn how to use that then. My TRAVELLING DAYS are a mixture of talking to strangers, walking, a lot of walking, walking in one direction, then turning, taking trains, then walking to where the connection should be. Sometimes I have a little snack with me, drink an expresso at one of those large newsstands. If I calculate triple the time it should take, then it will be fine.

Around early lunchtime I am near Central London and supposed to reach the tube that will get me to Canary Wharf in just a few stops – taking the escalator at the end of the station up to ground level, crossing through the covered walkway and taking the moving stairs back down. By now it is almost 12:00, the time I told my son I would meet him at his friend’s place, today. I am sure it was today, ‘cause tomorrow is already Friday. I will take him to a good steak place, if he knows one, and knows how to get to it. He is a bit like me. I hurry along now, seeking the faces of strangers. Maybe someone can make out my troubles, see my pain.

I get stuck on the face of a kid, a youngster, a good looking young man. He is sitting though, I have to look slightly down. The face hits me like a miracle. Somehow I KNOW his face. I love this face. His head is swinging with the melody he is singing. It must have reached my ears already some seconds ago, now I recognize the song,

Oh, mirror in the sky 
What is love?
 Can the child within my heart rise above? 
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?
 Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I've been afraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you…

I recognize the words, the melody. Stevie Nicks’ heartbreaking lyrics which always hit me in some center of my body, no matter at which point in my life cycle I am – coming from the opened mouth – of my son.