Ruse Is Not A Tropical Disease

London. I figured after last time that I would never like this city much; but I would give it a second chance this time around. That was until I stepped out of the plane and entered Heathrow Airport. I do honestly hate that place, although as of this moment, I more passionately hate the Italian guy sitting next to me in this hip Brussels hostel's internet corner, for typing on his keyboard like it is an ancient typewriter, causing the whole table to vibrate strongly but irregularly, and overall turning his typing activity into a very noisy and annoying affair for others nearby. Anyhow.

I arrived at Holborn Station during rush hour, which I now know is a Don't Do, especially for beginners. In search of my hostel and road signs that would help me find it, all I saw were cranky, very serious people in a hurry -- people who were entirely focused on getting to their destination, probably their homes, as quickly as they could. In that sea of fast-moving bodies, I noticed the occasional still-standing tourist holding a map but who was equally disoriented, which I found was a funny sight, as I told myself that I was the guy from rural African who had never been to the Western big city, overwhelmed and lost and without a map even. There must be some good explanation for this in the study of psychology, the fact that the cranky-looking people running around made me feel I needed to start moving -and fast, too- even though I had no idea which direction to take. I walked back and forth in the surrounding area and did not get any smarter, so then I asked the first normal, idly-standing person for help and, of course, she had an iPhone and in no time, she pinpointed for me our location and my hostel on Google Maps. There are nice people in this city, after all. Then came a woman who asked help; she looked desperate but not so desperate as to look suspicious. She had asked 10 people already, was pregnant, [......], needed £4 for a ride home, and if I didn't believe her, I could even have her cellular phone [...] -- to which I said I was merely a backpacker, unsure of whether or not that was cold-blooded but recalling that the very first person I exchanged words with that day, in London, was a lady at a desk in Heathrow Airport trying to trick me into buying overpriced train tickets to get to the city.

But to sum it all up, the long weekend in London was pretty fantastic and with some surprises, as the positives, e.g.:

+ catching U2 perform, in a surprise gig, on the rooftop of the BBC
+ nostalgic bus rides
+ Picasso Illuminations at Trafalgar Square
+ great restaurants
+ meeting strangers
far outweighed the usual negatives, i.e.,:

- the sight of too many older women wearing skirts too short (not charming)

- too much binge drinking, too early in the day

- Heathrow Airport

- stupid, American tourists everywhere I went ("My brother is the biggest U2 fan! Really, he used to, like, travel to other cities to go to their concerts.")

I'd like to think that I have become more open-minded; that living in Africa has had that effect. During the coffee breaks between lectures, I ended up socializing with more blacks than people of any other race. Most white people didn't want my love, and it's the front-row, glasses-wearing Cantonese who suddenly looked the least approachable and interesting. Let me point out here that I am more sarcastic than I am an ass, as not only do I have a bit of Cantonese in me, but I wear glasses, occasionally, and choose the front row, too.. sometimes. It's weird this passage turned out like this because the overall message is supposed to be that race does not matter.

The evening before I left London, the woman was there again, approaching me with an "Excuuse me!" from afar; but in the relative darkness, she recognized me only after she was within about 5m distance and greeted with a big smile -- at which point, with a look of frustration and disappointment on her face, she let out an "Ahh Sh...!" I thought this little incident was wildly amusing, not least because I had been wondering if she was for real or not, if there I had declined to help someone in need or if she was a failed con artist. If only I had a picture of that face!

- - - - -

Epilogue: About meeting random strangers.

There's something very different about traveling alone: You take in more of your surroundings and it becomes more of a sensory experience simply because, for better or for worse, you need only to entertain yourself. Somehow, it also makes it a hundred times easier for me to get into a conversation with a perfect stranger -- if he or she is of any interest, or is at least friendly. Among the people I had the chance to get acquainted with were Remy, the Portuguese-French, soon-to-be fighter pilot; Jorge from Venezuela who insisted that Chavez is loco, and who worked for a year to save up money for his first-time trip to Europe; Holly, the hippie vegan from New York; Florin, the Romanian truck driver who was returning home, scared after being attacked and robbed of his possessions, including the truck he was driving, by another Romanian.. but who was excited to be in an airport for his first time, and to tell a stranger all about his country and people.

For the flight from London to Brussels, one had to check in using one of those machines, and so I reluctantly did and while at it, chose the seat 22C. They're my number and letter, and it proved to be the best seat on the plane. What I found when I got to it was a black little bag. In it were £185 and $145, a considerable amount (especially in Africa, I kept thinking). I knew not what to do with it, but reckoned that without a name on it, it was near-impossible to return it to the owner who must have long left. And anyone I would hand it to would just keep it for him- or herself. The clean-up team probably hadn't noticed it; Mr. 22A had, but left it untouched. I decided to split it with this Mr. 22A, a Bangkok-based, self-employed Belgian who thought I was being generous, when really it was just so I needn't feel weird about the whole thing. In Brussels, I would, among other things, pay more attention to street performers and musicians; spend €30 on a pay-as-you-wish ashtray, made by a homeless person using scissors to work the bottom of lemonade cans; and in an act of cultural exchange, buy Jorge his first Guinness and Belgian beer. Altogether Brussels was a quite a success, it appeared.

Then I missed my flight to Cameroon the next morning -- and to punish myself for such retardedness, I stayed and waited in the airport until the next flight (45 hours later).