My little farewells to London: Camden

Camden will never be too far away. I just need to open my wardrobe or look through my selection of earrings. I suppose in a way I had Camden in me before I actually moved there.

It was love at first sight. I was 22, at my belated teenage rebel time and I found myself surrounded by pretentious Goths, lost in time hippies, colourful weirdoes. Back then that was paradise. Utopia in London.

Now it is simply the place where I could blend in and feel comfortable in any mood, any outfit, any face. Camden is not the intellectual place where I could conceptualize complex theories and construct abstract voting behaviour models. Thus, not the office. The home. Wannabe bohemian with a hint of commercial taint it is exactly the place where my gypsy heart could float happily, wearing a life vest. Exotic enough but in the familiar wrapping.

Oh and most importantly it is the only place where I can actually stand shopping. Preferably on Monday mornings, not to avoid people, but to have my home to myself!

Camden is the living room of the house. To go to the bedroom, where one relaxes and dreams I head north towards the Heath. My Sundays were full of it.

And home is not a place you leave from, it is a place you return to.

My little farewells to London: Bloomsbury

We never really said goodbye. It was one of these casual relationships that you merely say “See you later” when you make your leave. Considering I lived in a dungeon office – chained to my desk, as JK, my boss, used to say – on the main square of Bloomsbury campus I have to say we kept it pretty unemotional.

It is a place that gives me a cool breeze and sharp thinking all year round. No matter the temperature outside, when I stand in Tavistock square I feel ready for the most rigorous academic thinking, the most sarcastic comment, the most cynical view of the world.

If it was a person, Lord Bloomsbury, would be a frisky aristocrat in his late 30s. With cool skin, and flawless white shirt; phlegmatic humour and sharp calculations. Lots of “indeed, my dear” and “lovely weather”. He would use the same condescending smile both to invite you for dinner and to shoot you in a dark alley (as long as he did not get blood on his shirt).

The buildings are flawless, the once private park squares still reflect the intellectual snobbery of their famous frequents, immaculate perfection that even the drunk students are not able to affect. They get swallowed by it.

The university buildings add to the feeling. Especially the big Senate Big Brother presence. But turn left and you are in front of SOAS. The only place in the area that managed to add its own colour. Curry smells, colourful ethnic clothes, colourful people, music… A spot of red wine on Lord Bloomsbury’s white shirt!

I like him. Not sure he likes me back. But you never know with these upper class fellows. We might meet again, who knows. But next time on more equal terms.

My little farewells to London: Soho

Another meeting with friends is over. I should be heading home, but tonight I think I will take my time.

I am in Soho, the posh side. Expensive bars and well dressed people.

Just one street further north and the picture changes. Bars, restaurants, cafes, a catholic church hosting an order of capuchin monks, a van full of alcohol and a group of people drinking in the back of it, some dark gay bars, not the flashy main stream.

What I like in this ambience is the colourful collection of people that would not fit together if seen in any other place. Soho has an impressive dominating effect on visitors, even on the regulars. It makes you believe that there everything is possible. Any time of night or day you can see anything. Just pretend you were expecting it.

I give my best friend a call to share the experience.

Sitting in his comfy bed in his familiar suburban environment has the most mum-like reaction I would (or would not) expect. You are in Soho? Be careful! It’s late!

Calm down silly!! Who would harm ME, in my bright yellow dress? Says confident me.

(Do not seek the logic in this, there is none!)

I like the dirty side of Soho, the one that you have the slight feeling of fear in the back of your head but you know that every corner is full of excitement and new experiences. I keep heading north. There I see empty restaurants, tired waiters cleaning up, and some Italians complaining about their recent loss in Euro 2008… oh well… next time boys.

My little farewells to London: Southbank

It is this time again for the Nomad to take her leave. It is like a wind blowing to the direction of “exit”. I know I have a little more time left just to kiss London goodbye.

Some places you conquer and some other places conquer you. London falls in the latter category. Too big and powerful, too many impressions. So, this time the Nomad leaves with slow careful steps not to awake Julius César inside her.

My first little farewell was to the Southbank where the old and new combine, where the planned and the unintended mix together. It is a normal indecisive day typical for London, when the sun and the clouds just cannot agree whose turn it is to rule the sky (and our moods come to that). The planned feature of the day is an eastern European festival. The unintended picture I took home with me is a black man forging his Caribbean dance to fit the gypsy rhythms. I walk on.

A woman in the sand performing her rituals to awake it; to give it a new form that will last only for as long the almighty tide allows it.

Few steps further I enter the wildlife world. I come face to face with tigers, pandas and other paper creatures in a not so successful exhibition. What is a cheetah doing next to the Thames anyway? Or is this part of the collection of impossible faces that constitute London?

This city fascinates me and frightens me as I still cannot grasp the over arching logic that rules it. I understand square things. And this city is round. There is only one place where its minimalist nature allows you to believe that you understand. The Tate. And from there I try to understand London again.

And this is the result:

London mornings

Bike in the shop for service makes a great opportunity to use alternative methods of transport to get to work, which at morning rush hour can only be my own two legs. Busses, trains and the tube are just out of the question on a cold winter morning, because they are defined by the very combination of conditions that can guarantee nausea. Since me and my stomach have a very special relationship… I choose to listen to its voice of reason, so I walk to work.

And oh so many wonderful things I discover!

Kentish Town Road at 8am is full of people, but none of the shops are open. The area is full of young professionals who wait for the bus or walk purposefully. As I make my way south the amount of white people drops and more colourful skin tones catch your eye – and by that I do not mean any green skins! I have not reached Camden Town yet!

The more south I go the later it gets, so more shops are open and the streets get more populated. Hitting Euston station I stand in front of an urban revelation. The people here look like an updated model of the people in NW5. Better clothes, better hair styles, better shoes. And by better here I mean more expensive, more elaborate, closer to the fashion trends set by Vogue and other such magazines. The last phase of my journey is full of young university student faces, clearly unhappy that they had to be dragged out of bed to have a 9am lecture.

What struck me in this morning adventure was the fact that I did not see a single happy face. All, and I mean ALL, of the people that crossed my chosen path, had but this in common. People of all different races, colours, ages, financial backgrounds had the unhappy, indifferent face in common.

I was the only one sticking out. Not fitting.

And wondering what was that made them all unhappy. That it was a Monday? That is was so early? The fact that they had to work? The cold? The stupid silly rain? And are all these things enough to give every single person this expression?

Of course one could argue that the only other thing apart from unhappiness that these people had in common was that I crossed their path. So logically… that would make the perfect causal relationship. Oh... the effects I have on people. (nononono I should not be that paranoid)

Or is it London (and my infection is just in its incubation period)?