The Canadian was very insistent. Apparently, my words are needed to express his pain. In reality, his words are actually pretty good - for a Canadian- but I'll happily help him out, for his pain is not his alone. You see, i already planned to post about this very topic he demands. More than just having it in or on my mind, I actually started a draft on my BlackBerry a while back. I think this was a rant I had in mind to save up for a rainy day. A day when I was stuck for ideas or at a loss for sarcastic inspiration. Well, as mentioned in the last post, my voice is still not yet completely in rhythm with my pencil, so off the bench comes this rant.
Oh Canada, this song is for you.
Oh Canada, this song is for you.
(In the interests of full disclosure, I must clarify the complete national makeup of said Canadian. His parents are from South Africa, his last name is Scottish and his passport is Irish. He talks with a Canadian accent, but has lived in the UK for the past 10 years. He follows some shitty North London football team, whilst constantly lecturing about American Football and restaurants in Vancouver. Not since I labeled my Russian friend 'The Ukrainian', just to piss her off, have I assigned such a misleading and inaccurate handle.)
I love walking. I don't mind the weather, I don't mind the time of day and I don't mind where to. Whether I'm running late or have all the time in the world, I'd rather walk. Sometimes, I walk a little faster and sometimes, I'll move at a somewhat more leisurely pace. I've walked a variety of terrains and profiles. From the crowded, yet quite hassle free, New York City, to the vast, vacant and stretching beaches of Northern New South Wales and back across to the surprising and amusement filled, wide boulevards of Los Angeles. I walk to help constrict body weight, I walk to accommodate ipod listening and I love to walk in circles around the block, when on an emotional phone call.
A journey, even if it is just a short walk, needs to not be encumbered by weight nor obstacle.
Unfortunately, on occasion, people moving at a far slower rate than I, will block my path and present a challenge to circumvent them. More than just an inconvenience, there's a frustration interred by a disruption to the flow. Walking is so enjoyable, simply because of its fluidity and any pause, negates that said enjoyment. But, shit happens and you can't quite wipe someone off the face of the planet, simply because you don't like the way they walk.
Or can you?
No, I suppose you can't.
Hmmm, well the solution then must be to avoid all areas and localities particularly susceptible to consistent and often displays of 'obstacle'. So, with that in mind, I've left London altogether. Yep, in order to prevent transgressing a criminal violent act upon an entire family of five, stunned Italian tourists, as they stand planted, blocking the exit out of South Kentsington Station, I've jumped on a plane and come over to New York. Its an extremely prudent move. May seem like an overreaction to a conceived melodrama, but I've truly saved those Italian's lives. Until someone else kills them, that is.
Oh dear, this post has taken quite a violent turn, hasn't it? It started off so sweet, so romantic, so very much like an introduction paragraph on e-harmony.com ("I like walks on the beach") and then it just degenerated into Mediterranean Murder. I'm sorry, its just that those close-talking, puffy-jacket-wearing, sour-faced vacationers, that are in dense supply in and around SW3 (Chelsea/Fulham) in particular, seem to inspire such rage in me. It's not directed at them as people - I don't know the first thing about them personally - it is directed at how they walk; or to be more precise - how they have no idea how to walk.
Sure, they're fine with the mechanics. They know how to put the right foot in front of the left one, followed by the left foot in front of the right one and then repeat and repeat. What they can't quite seem to grasp is spatial awareness and appropriate rest areas. I don't want to seem racist- its not the weekend (private joke there for Public and PJs staff. Email me and I'll explain)- but don't you have escalators in the corner of Spain that spawned you? I know it looks a little sinister, but the it won't swallow you in a consuming, crush of iron and steel. Don't stand there, frozen in confused fear at the base of the damn thing, staring quizzically up at the ascent, whilst blocking the way of all the hundreds behind you. Just follow the example of the person in front, hop on board and MOVE THE FUCK ON.
Whoops. There I go again. Sorry. Deep breath and count to ten.
Look, I understand that you're French and therefore find it demeaning to ask an English person for anything. I understand that this aloof prejudice precluded you from requesting directional aid from the fellow on the front-desk of your hotel (even though he is as English as the perogies his grandmother serves him back in his home town of Krakow). But, if you must consult your map for directions to The Royal Albert Hall, do you not think you could find a more appropriate place than the one that sees you blocking the exit out from the turnstile gate? They are designed to allow out only one person at a time and until you move clearly beyond them, the rest of us are trapped inside the station. I know your government pays unemployment compensation of up to 70% of your previous income, but mine doesn't and I REALLY NEED TO GET TO WORK!!
Oh fuck it. I'm gonna let all this anger out.
There's so much to spoil anyone's day in that pocket of Chelsea. There's the Burka drenched, Saudi women, who insist on traveling in groups, that walk spread wide across the entire sidewalk, in one perfect horizontal line. I'm sure that where you come from, this type of barrier technique perfectly complies with all the requirements of instant implementation of a Human Shield, to 'defend' some missile storage site, but here in London, all it does is upset those who might need to, I don't know, ALSO USE THE SIDEWALK.
There's the Russians, who can't talk without wildly flailing their hands about to both express their points and knock a hole in your skull as you walk past. Or there's the Scandinavians who, despite surely buying there own clothing and shoes, have absolutely no idea how ridiculously tall they are and just assume that the 12 of them are as inconspicuously space assuming, as a group of three, Japanese 7 year olds. Speaking of the Japanese, they seem to think the electronic entry turnstiles at the station are Atari Gaming Consoles that require a whole bunch of complex and intricate 'moves' and procedures in order to 'win' entry. JUST SWIPE YOUR FUCKING CARD AND LET'S GO! If it doesn't work, go directly to the ticket booth!!! The machine is not suddenly going to change its mind if you keep re swiping your card over and over.
Its not just The Canadian and I that have let our frustrations bubble over. It seems to be vebalised by any and all that work in and around the area of SW3. Finally, and at last, the authorities have been provoked into action. The other day, as I pulled into South Kent on The Circle Line, the driver brought the train to a halt at the platform, but did not immediately open the doors. Whilst all who were waiting to disembark stood staring at the shut doors, his voice cackled over the internal pPA system. Now, I had my ipod blaring at the time, so unfortunately I missed the first portion of his little speech, but in essence he rambled on for nearly 5 minutes, lecturing on the safe and appropriate methods for alighting the train, climbing the stairs, passing through the turnstiles and exiting the station out into the real world. It was brilliant. Truly. The theme he maintained throughout his entire, impassioned, monologue was: walk steady, stay to the left, don't push, don't suddenly come to a stop, wait until you are in a clear area until you congregate and be aware of others around you. Only after he had repeated all his points three times and sounded just like a teacher instructing a group of preschoolers, did he then open the doors.
I felt so proud. Proud of The TFL, proud of the driver, proud of the meddling self righteousness that is inate in all that are English, proud of The Canadian and proud for my mother, that she did not now run the risk of being the parent of a jail-bound murderer. I felt like we were all part of a revolution. The human spirit, the need to progress under improved and bettered conditions than whence we have come from, had borne this completely necessary reaction. Now things would be better. These people would now be conscious to an awareness of others around them and would now also be armed with the information allowing them to accommodate such concerns. Such an inspiring display of grassroots liberty in action. Viva la revolution!
And then, as I eased my way into the mass moving its way up the left-side stairs, we, all two/three hundred of us came to a halt. For, despite the presence of train station staff, not but a few feet away at the top of the stairs, directing all inbound traffic to descend on the opposite side of the divided stairs to us ascending, came down, directly at all of us, a full family of puffy-jacketed Italians. Completely oblivious to the chaos they were now causing, they came to a group pause at the midway landing. One of them whipped out a Tube Map and they all proceeded to yell around a discussion of which train to take and to which stop to take it to. It was mental. These people had just disrupted a perfect system of flux and had neither concern nor awareness of it. The frustration of the mob built. All around me, queries as to the source of our frozen progress, flew about. People started to push and then shove. Impatience turned to frustration, which, in turn, grew into rage directed at the Italians. Then, in one synchronized and sudden burst, the entire mass of humanity that had been held back from the forward progress of their day, flew upon the group blocking their path. There was fists thrown, heavy winter boots kicked, umbrellas struck and handbags swung. I'm quite sure, that at some point, I even saw someone produce an iron bar from somewhere and commence beating one of the Italians, as he lay prostrate and unconscious on the ground. They never stood a chance. I only hope they did not die in too much pain.
Hang on. I don't think that last part, the riot/group lynching, actually happened. I think it was just my imagination that went there. My mind went straight to murder. Shit, that's not good. Gotta get away before imagination can manifest into reality. Must come to New York.
And this is how, a simple flight by a waiter like me, saved the lives of an entire family of five.
Make sense now?
