Impressions of London II (25/09/10)

Saturday, Hampstead Heath

Am sitting next to a pond , hills and trees across the way. Black ducks with white tipped faces and beaks churn the water gracelessly, their heads bobbing rhythmically, one can see that they are working hard just under the surface of the water. Like young teenagers, they haven't mastered the technique of making it look easy.

I love Hampstead Heath. I recall walking for what felt like hours here the first time I was in London at the age of nineteen. I especially liked the forest of trees that opened up onto vast rolling fields punctuated here and there by wide reaching and centennial trees. I remember the unexpected pleasure of coming across swimming ponds. There among the reeds and lily pads were the English, splashing about enthusiastically. It seemed to me then the height of genteel hedonism.

I am, if anything, a creature of habit. Even here in London, I have made my little rituals, which is why this morning, I went for the second day in a row (I have only been here two days) to the little Turkish grocery to get my breakfast of cheese wrapped in a flat bread. While walking down the street, breakfast in hand and feeling quite pleased with myself in the sunny, crisp morning air, I heard a man yell. I turned around to see a young man hollering at me from a car, from the back seat no less. I leaned towards him to try to understand what he was telling me but the light changed and he drove off laughing. I have no idea what he said, like I mentioned before, these accents are impossible to decipher. I am certain though, that he was not remarking on my stunning good looks nor on my intelligent taste in breakfast.

The sun has come out, casting my hand in shadow across this page. There are men fishing on this pond which is no larger than an American football field. I wonder if the city of London stocks the pond with fish each year to satisfy the cravings of urban fishermen. Behind me two women discuss the swimming conditions of the ponds. Could they still be open? It is late fall and probably no more than ten degrees. I shiver in my wind jacket and the idea of taking off even one item of clothing seems unhealthy.

I contemplate the hill across the way. I would like to climb across its grassy back before returning to the gated bourgeoisie of Camden but a pressing need to pee is tempering my enthusiasm.