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Published: September 1st 2006
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On the line for my flight’s check-in, I strike up a conversation with an 8-year-old from London. I start with a few tentative comments about football - “You mean soccer?” he asks, puzzled - and soon the kid is off and running on complex attack schemes and off-side traps. He’s not so sure England would’ve faired much better in the World Cup with Jermain Defoe. He thinks Chelsea will repeat with ease. “They start you guys young, don’t they?” I say. He grins bashfully beneath his Yankees cap. He says he doesn’t like baseball, but he likes New York. His mother pats his head approvingly. Behind me, an Iranian guy is getting harassed about his passport by two severe-looking guards.
It’s been nearly a decade since I made the acquaintance of our trans-Atlantic neighbors, and for the trip ahead, London seems like a logical first-step. Flights from JFK to Heathrow are relatively cheap, friends in London have offered countless beds on countless occasions, and the initial language barrier of landing on foreign soil is dampened by the fact that, in theory at least, a guy from Brooklyn and a guy from Kensington are speaking the same tongue.
And besides, I’ve got plenty of catching up to do. My first stop is with a pair of photographers I’d met last year in Maui, during the sort of life-altering, whirlwind week that seems impossible without a bagful of serious narcotics. We’d each been grappling with the challenges of new directions in our lives, and after a frenetic week of soul-searching on a moonlit stretch of sand, we’d realized that whatever wavering steps we took across the threshold, we’d have good company along the way.
In the months since we’ve managed to stay in touch - an impressive feat, given our track records. Lately, e-mails have been more sporadic. Weeks go by without word; all this month, my messages have been going unanswered. A couple of days before arrival, Greg sends me elaborate directions to his house from Heathrow. Minutes later, I get a follow-up:
Just to let you know, Lenny will be out from 10.45am to about 12.45pm and the door bell doesn't work.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve already overstayed my welcome.
The impressions I have of London are distilled from a few trips I made to the city in the late-‘90s.
At the time I was doing a year of study abroad in Manchester, a clamorous college town a few hours to the north. On long weekends I’d take the train south, feeling the sense of adventure familiar to any young American in Europe with a direct pipeline to his parents’ bank account. I have gauzy memories of the fresh-faced girls from Minnesota I met in a hostel, and the creepy older guy who shared my bunk, and the fact that I cried on my 20th birthday because I was spending it alone. In spite of such a short sampling, I’ve had no reservations about speaking with great confidence over the past eight years about the situation abroad, recognizing London as one of the great world capitals because I once ate sushi there off a conveyor belt.
The city’s changed, I’ve changed: in many ways, I’m starting from scratch. From the start I notice my annoying habit - honed and refined in Japan six months ago - of looking at things with a too-keen eye, imparting on every new face and experience a significance of Homeric proportions. The implicit job I’ve given myself isn’t just to spend a few
days exploring a strange city, but to unravel the cultural tapestry of modern England, weaving it anew into the complex fabric of some greater, global perspective.
You can imagine what fun I’d be over a pint at the pub.
Lenny and Greg’s house is in Peckham Rye, on a crowded lane of barbers, butchers and cheap electronics stores. On the walk from the train station, I pass rows of shops where chickens dangle from the ceiling and fish gleam on beds of ice. There are discount shoes being hawked in the windows. Enthusiastic greetings ring out along the street. I find their flat above a store called Eliott’s, which sells “Casual Designer Wear” to a hip-hop soundtrack that begins to rattle the walls at 11am sharp. Lenny’s running late; she’s just hopped out of the shower; her hair is still damp with the smell of shampoo.
In the ‘80s, Lenny was a teen beauty queen. She’s spent the past two decades criss-crossing the globe, working on TV documentaries in exotic locales. She has a quick, infectious laugh and a habit of getting carried away with her own enthusiasm. When she leans forward during a
story and asks, “D’youknowhatImean?,” it’s short-hand for, “Can you possibly keep up with me?” We get caught up at her kitchen table while she handles calls from estate agents around town. After a maverick life behind the camera, Lenny’s looking to find some stability in real estate. She’s trying to decide which estate agents will be charged with the task of selling her house. She laughs wickedly at a joke and then answers the phone in her grown-up voice. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye that suggests she’s always set to go off.
It’s funny to picture her a decade ago, a short and exuberant blonde in what was still considered to be a rough part of town. In the real estate sweepstakes of modern London, Peckham Rye is hardly a winning ticket. The African and West-Indian immigrants that have flooded the area through the years have kept most developers at bay, while pockets of crime have urged Lenny to go over with me an elaborate routine for locking the door. But in the past few years, she’s noticed a shift. White, middle-class tenants are moving in. There are plans to extend an overland rail line to the area. Property values are creeping upwards, even if Lenny’s beautiful three-bedroom flat would command a third more in neighboring East Dulwich.
I’m drowsy at the kitchen table; it’s been over a day since I’ve slept. While we’re finishing our coffee, an estate agent comes to see the flat. He presses my hand firmly and gives me a go-getter smile. Lenny shows him around. He’s swimming in cologne and finds a way to work his company’s name into every breath. In the kitchen, he methodically begins to tear apart the competition. Whenever he begins a sentence with, “I don’t mean to sound like sour grapes,” we know the grapes will be very sour indeed. He makes a habit of addressing me when he explains the finer points of his trade, even though Lenny’s made it clear that I have as much say in the final decision as I have in the queen’s wardrobe. When he leaves, Lenny rolls her eyes and says, “Well, he was just
lovely.” But we agree that he’s onerous in exactly the sorts of ways that can probably sell a home.
She decides to list her house with his company. I go upstairs to take a nap. When I wake up, the streets are empty and a blustery wind is shaking the windowpanes. It’s half-past four in the morning; I’ve been asleep for 13 hours. I make a cup of coffee and watch BBC News until Lenny, stretching and yawning like a house-cat, pads into the living room.
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