Little London stories (part one of five)

I'm back in the U.S. for Reading Week, a new term to me but a welcome one. I love studying at King's College London, but also love coming "home". I still have a U.S. apartment til the end of the year (lease), and though it pains me financially, it's an emotional balm. Transitioning to a new country and way of life is harder than it seems when we're sitting around doodling pictures of Big Ben and dreaming of handsome Colin Firth-like men whisking us away in their chariots (with the steering wheel on the wrong side.)

As I reflect on my three weeks in London, I'm struck more by the stories of the people I've met than anything else. My friend Kelly, who passed in 2008, once told me: "All cities are alike." She was right. New York, Chicago and London share Starbucks, traffic, a cosmopolitan sneer and swagger, and competitive financial climates. Walk into any busy Whole Foods and you'll forget exactly where you are unless you've picked up, say, an Americano coffee and see the darling shortbread being served alongside it. You're in Blighty.

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My favorite stories so far:

1) Mohammed: a forty or fiftysomething laundromat owner in Acton Town, which is right off the Piccadilly and District tube lines. He's been trying to get his wife over from Afghanistan for many years. I offered to help edit a letter for him - his English is poor - and that made his day. "I don't need anything in return, but if you would be so kind, Mohammed, please put the word out that I need a cat-friendly flat."

2) Muslim woman with two kids: I was lost near my lodge at Heathrow. Wandering around with my laundry of all things, I must have looked like a middle-aged vagabond, but this dear woman in an SUV was kind enough to roll her window down: "Do you need a lift somewhere?" Choking back the tears, I realized that yes, I very much did. I told her, "My directions were off. I think I just want to go back to Terminal 5 now." But she insisted, "No, let me take you home." I told her I didn't have a home yet, I was flat searching, and was at a lodge. "Then I'll take you to the lodge." She not only took me there but scribbled out her number: "If you need ANYTHING." Her son and daughter smiled at me sweetly, and I wiped a tear as I joined the boy smiling as a loud plane passed overhead.

Jerod at Waterstone's (books) at Piccadilly: Twenty-something perfectly pierced Jerod works in the café at ground level, has the nicest smile and most caring demeanor. I embarrassed myself while Facetiming Mom, grabbing him (metaphorically) and asking if he'd speak to her. "She'd love to hear a real British accent!" "Ok," replied he, "But I'm from Belgium." That is so typical of American-European interaction that I wanted to die. If they are not putting us in our place deliberately, they are inadvertently. Certainly Jerod is too kind a human to spell out for me that I am not yet well-travelled enough to differentiate accents well. The second time I went to the café he remembered me and asked how my flat search was going. I remembered he was from Beligum. "Are the pastries better here or in Belgium?"

More stories to come when I return 8 November.

Names have been changed.