I apologize for the lateness of this initial post; I
just couldn't remove myself from being a London fixture. I arrived in London
about a month ago with the notion that I was about to conquer a new
playground. I remember writing this short essay sometime in early spring about
going abroad and exploring unfamiliar terrain:
I enjoy sitting in the sandbox and swinging from the tire on the massive, ancient oak at the playground around the corner. This playground does not become uninhabited or vacant with imperfect weather but quite the contrary. I watch as the whimsical and giddy children fight for the “best” – of course, that’s relative in a concrete way – spot on this recreation ground. I might occasionally encounter the self-involved child who does not want to share or play nice. I mean to compare this type of individual to an incessantly barking dog urinating on a fire hydrant would only be accurate and fair. To survive on this jungle gym, I must be ready for a dog-eat-dog code of conduct. I have to tolerate the bruised knee and scabbed elbow from falling off the new, mountain like slide. I know that at some point I cannot swing any higher and must jump off to start again. Without this retreat, I would be as stable as the chaotic, counterclockwise rotation of a tetherball.
In spite of that, I no longer chase down the ice cream truck after an intense game of tag. To be honest, I cannot count how old I have become on one hand; in fact, I need four and do not have a single finger to spare. The playground that I call home does not look exactly like the one I described. Forget the boundless sand and the noxious woodchip carpet; I live amidst the callous concrete and degenerative blacktop. I often encounter people, foreign to this playground, who do not know where to begin and mistakenly rush for the ostentatious merry-go-round in the center. Of course, I mean the revolving machine situated at West 42nd Street and 7th Avenue – marked by gridlock traffic, a seven story NASDAQ illuminated sign, and a naked cowboy – as if the stomping ground could be anywhere else. I do not spend every waking moment on a single object in the playground but put each one to the test. I live for this; however, I remain on the lookout for the opportunity to investigate a new playground.
Another dreary day in London town - I apologize if that just
got Michael Buble's "A Foggy Day (In London Town)" repeating
over and over again in your head - but I don't mind the weather here,
especially after just returning from a week long trip with the English
study group in Wales. Let's just say that I anticipated agreeing with the
following Dylan Thomas statement - minus the minor fact that I am not Welsh;
"Wales is the land of my fathers. And my fathers can have it." After
falling in love with Tintern Abbey and the harmonious silence of the Welsh
countryside, I guess I might be a convert.
As a student of
literature, I couldn't ask for a better location to study abroad; reading
Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway in St. James's Park with the musical and yet
irrevocably harsh sound of Big Ben striking in the background couldn't be
anything better than, well, a good English ale.
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