A Dickens of a Time

After fifteen days of living in London, settling in, knowing where to get one's morning cuppa before class starts, and figuring out how to make the washing machine and dryer work (which involves propping the dryer door shut with an over-sized washing soap box), I've finally paid tribute to a local museum. As a Dickens fan, I was thrilled to discover that the Dickens Museum on Doughty Street was practically within spitting distance of my cosy little bedsit. So, last Sunday, trekking over puddled sidewalks, some cracked concrete and some cobbled, my friend Simon and I made our way through the London drizzle to the unassuming former Dickens' residence turned museum. While the Doughty Street residence is only one of Dickens' former homes, it marked the beginning of his success as a young and upcoming writer. Within these walls, Dickens wrote Nicholas Nickleby in its entirety and worked on Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, Sketches of Young Gentlemen, The Lamplighter, and Barnaby Rudge. Within these walls, Dickens hosted dinner parties for his friends. Within these walls, Dickens witnessed and grieved the sudden death of his sister-in-law Mary Hogarth. Here his rich characters and social conscience mingled with personal grief and triumph. Exploring the rooms of the Doughty Street home in hushed whispers, I wondered "whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life" (David Copperfield).

Walkabout Amongst Urban Warriors

In the interest of broadening my horizons, literally, I went for a walkabout on Thursday after I ran an errand. While I had my trusty London Mapguide with me, I decided to just walk and discover the area without a plan. I found myself walking down Fleet Street, passing the Royal Courts of Justice, navigating up Aldwych to Kingsway, and though I wasn't in the presence of the "notable tourist attractions" the winding streets, the huddled buildings (fish shops whispering to bookstores), and the often overlooked roundabouts were strangely comforting in their seasoned permanence as the masses scurried onto buses and out of taxis. Suddenly aware of the hour, half past 5pm (because the Brits don't say five-thirty), I was smack-dab in the middle of rush hour. Rush hour in London includes, perhaps more-so, pedestrian traffic. The walk that had such leisurely and peaceful beginnings had turned into a scene of running with the bulls, with no wayside rest to change one's shoes! My frenzy to keep up evolved into awe as I watched the sea of professional black navigate methodically, yet smoothly, through this space of kings. To add to the wonder, people could talk or text on their mobiles; they could read the free paper handed out at the corner; a teenager could even play with his Nintendo DS, all without the slightest hesitation in pace. I couldn't decide if this image fascinated or horrified me, or both! One can expect this kind of multi-tasking when on an elevator, a bus, or the Tube, as the potential for awkwardness or conversations with a stranger are great, but I began to realiSe that it wasn't necessarily about avoiding contact with the stranger next to you. It was about efficiency. This city moves so quickly, getting to work, working, returning home from work, even playing in the off hours requires great skill. In order to assure myself that I wasn't lost, I took myself out of this slipstream of efficiency, withdrawing from these ever-moving urban warriors, like the rules of inertia did not apply to me. I hugged this great, great, great, grandfather of a building and checked my mapguide, searching for the kind of reassurance I wouldn't find in a map. I wasn't lost, but I knew that. I took a breath and considered my surroundings with awe and a little bit of sadness. As I made my way back to my neighbourhood, I shared the awkward moment where two people are walking towards each other and try to step out of the other's path, but end up bouncing to the same side. I couldn't help but smile and laugh out loud. He just compensated and kept walking. That's alright, I will continue to find the humoUr in the little things, like that funny little march-like waddle of an old pigeon or the cheeky squirrel looking for a bit of food.