Voyassitude

March 28

1:18 p.m. London. I just landed in England three hours ago and by 3 p.m. I’ll be on my way to another country. With so little time in hand there’s no point in a rushed visit to the Churchill War Rooms or any touristy spot. I rather go for a special hobby of mine: watching life unfold before me in all its glory. And if I can do that from the comfort of a pub with a Guinness by my side, well, even better.

Sheltering from a very traditional London drizzle at The Camden Eye, I get a privileged view of the street outside just as he comes into the picture. He’s with a woman, presumably his mother, who pushes a stroller until she stops at the pelican crossing waiting for the light to change.

Yellow and navy raincoat, black pants, and a pair of Batman-themed yellow boots. He was holding the woman’s hand a minute before but not when he turns around and I get to watch his expression. He’s four, five years old at most. His black, immaculate skin combines beautifully with the yellow of his outfit; it’s a fashion statement, it’s art, it’s sheer cuteness and color imposing over the dull grey reigning outside.

But it’s his expression what gets me. Puzzlement floats in his eyes. He’s questioning everything he sees around him. London presents itself as a mystery, and it’s as if he’s trying to decipher it right there by the traffic light next to a pub and a Tube station with his yellow raincoat and Batman boots. Yes, he’s a little boy, everything is new and grand and amazing to him. But he’s not impressed one bit; he’s a tiny body covered in yellow exuding a kind of bemusement that enthralls me. Then, for a fraction of a second he looks at me, pondering my phone aimed at him, pondering my very presence there. And I just envy his way of looking at London the way nobody else does, almost as if he demanded answers for its way of maneuvering with inner mechanisms that make it go day after day, century after century with an eternal rain that returns invigorated just as the light turns green and the woman takes his little hand to carry away both his liberty and his puzzled air.

April 15

I wrote a raw version of this post at The Camden Eye pub a few weeks ago but didn’t have time to edit or publish it. Today I polished it a little but the essence of what I captured that Thursday afternoon prevails here.