a travelogue

The streets have worn my shoes to pieces-- the soles are detaching and I can see the dusty underbits of the leather. I look down at my feet, walking, and see pieces of the toe sticking out like tongues to lick up the scent of the street. It should smell like rain, if the common wisdom is to be believed, but it hasn't rained here yet, and the yellow-pink floral umbrella I bought despite my better conscience has only made two appearances. Some people told me the Brits dress in black, but I tried to set them straight-- the French, they wear black, and as the British hat the French, have named half the country after Waterloo, it seems doubtful that they would deign to sport the same colorscape. When the tube stops at Camden, I break protocol and stare at people-- bright pink dreds, a young man in tweed with magenta socks, a fellow with gages I want to stick my fingers through. Would that be a sexual gesture, here? I don't know who to ask.

The tube is what's worn the thread down in my boots, the twenty minute walk on pavement bubbled and cracked by trees' roots. "Sheperd's Hill"-- and I wonder if sheep lived here before me, the sheep I yearn to see here, in pastures, but not in the heart of a London strewn with bits of napkins and newspapers, five blocks' walk to a rubbish bin. Five blocks of feeling ridiculous, holding a hollow coffee sleeve in your hand, five blocks of looking at your grip and wondering if maybe half a sip is still left; sucking at air. No one hears the vacuum but you, me.

The waitstaff in cafes, restaurants, are at first puzzled then pleased at the American accent: a latte comes with three complimentary cookies on the side; a second plate of complimentary chips with that sandwich. It's because you're a nice American, a Brit tells you, a not-obese-and-rude American. Against the grain, you are. Smile back, say thank you for the vote of confidence. "Excess generosity," the American-style tipping is called. No more than ten percent at the most, and even then-- usually it's included. You are left with the options of feeling a) like a miser or b) like a performative yuppie. If given extra free food, choose b.

Do not smile at people who are not waitstaff; they do not appreciate it, you will not get an extra cookie or tart. If you open your mouth to say something with your American tongue, it is less offensive. Even though your "a" 's sound hard to you, and your mouth is a wide tunnel, gaping, those sounds are white flags waving. You are one sturdy olive branch of ignorance.