My body was filled with a chilling cold I just couldn’t shake. I have not slept in over 24 hours except for some mild dosing. I found a fleece blanket in the closet to cover myself as I tried to catch some sleep. Still chilled, I crawled further under the sheets searching for warmth. Slightly drifting off, I would be interrupted again with another round of chilling cold. Once awake, I would get up for another time to adjust the heat in the room. However, I never really could figure out the magical combination on the heating device that would bring in warmth to settle me off to a deep sleep.
Three hours later of rustling under the covers of blankets and seeking to chase the chill away, I finally gave up and decided try a hot shower and head out for a Sunday afternoon walk.
Today’s Sunday walk took a very different turn than usual. Today was a walk through the streets of London and Kensington Garden. My lack of sleep was due to the long flight from Salt Lake City to JFK and across the pond. I never can sleep well on airplanes.
The cold of London pierced me to the bone despite blue skies and sunshine. I hoped my late afternoon walk would help shed this feeling of cold. The moist air of London and its chill brought back memories of the feelings years earlier while on winter afternoon jogs through Seattle’s Green Lake. Same cold, same dampness, same chill to the bone.
I love to people-watch. Sunday afternoon brought all kinds of people out into the streets of London and Kensington Garden. The diversity of the people in London was immediately striking. As I walked along the streets and through the park, I heard more variety of non-English languages spoken in one place than anywhere in the world. In fact, it struck me odd to hear British English spoken as if it was out of context, as if they were in the wrong place.
Multitudes of race and ethnicity were quite prevalent as well to coincide with the Babel of languages. In particular, I noticed many mixed race couples as quite common as I wondered along Gloucester Street.
As I walked and observed people, one thing puzzled me. In America, we are so bent to be proper and ensure everything we say or what we call things is politically correct. A black person is inappropriately called “black,” but instead the politically correct term is “African-American.” Now here is what puzzled me. What do you call a black person in the UK? An “African-Brit?”
I walked along Gloucester Street passing a number of Indian cuisine restaurants with interesting menus posted in the window, a Starbucks, pubs, and many apartment flats. I arrived at the gates of Kensington Gardens and walked along the board walk across the gardens toward Kensington Palace and Princess Di’s children’s park.
The park was bustling. Families from grandparents to grandchildren strolled along the garden’s walkways. “Mums” played “tag” with their children. A father raced his daughter to be first to touch a park bench. Another father passes a football (in America, a soccer ball) to his son. The diversity continued to strike me. I have walked through many cities and have never seen so much diversity. Only New York City comes close. And perhaps I was so taken by the diversity because I have lived in Utah too long.
Many people are out walking their dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs with coats, dogs with flashing light collars and certainly no cats. Most dogs were running free unconstrained by their masters chasing squirrels, birds and other dogs. One dog saw this as an opportunity to break from its owner and dash far off into the garden. The frantic master dashed off screaming the dog’s name into the dusk of the evening weaving through the large oak tree grove of Kensington.
The stereo-typc was confirmed for me as most dogs in the park were those little, short white dogs with the beards. I am not sure of the correct breed name but I call them “Westinghouse” or “westie” for short. They look so cute with their little plaid jackets but westies think they own the park. They have a “little dog complex”.
As the sun set, darkness settled in bringing with it a fresh, new wave of chill to the evening. I made my way back out the entrance of the Garden and I wove through the London streets as busy traffic raced by. The city remained alive. With all the brick buildings, unique detail of architecture, and smoke rising from smoke stacks, I couldn’t help but to mentally drift off and visualize the city during the World War II German assualt. In my mind’s eye I could hear screaming air raid sirens echo through vacant streets with bombs exploding off in the distance of the night. It felt erry.
I found my way back to my rented apartment where my chill remained. However, this time I unlocked the magical combination to the electric heater and it eventually chased the the cold away…..and I fell into a deep, cozy sleep.
Cheers,
dale
Three hours later of rustling under the covers of blankets and seeking to chase the chill away, I finally gave up and decided try a hot shower and head out for a Sunday afternoon walk.
Today’s Sunday walk took a very different turn than usual. Today was a walk through the streets of London and Kensington Garden. My lack of sleep was due to the long flight from Salt Lake City to JFK and across the pond. I never can sleep well on airplanes.
The cold of London pierced me to the bone despite blue skies and sunshine. I hoped my late afternoon walk would help shed this feeling of cold. The moist air of London and its chill brought back memories of the feelings years earlier while on winter afternoon jogs through Seattle’s Green Lake. Same cold, same dampness, same chill to the bone.
I love to people-watch. Sunday afternoon brought all kinds of people out into the streets of London and Kensington Garden. The diversity of the people in London was immediately striking. As I walked along the streets and through the park, I heard more variety of non-English languages spoken in one place than anywhere in the world. In fact, it struck me odd to hear British English spoken as if it was out of context, as if they were in the wrong place.
Multitudes of race and ethnicity were quite prevalent as well to coincide with the Babel of languages. In particular, I noticed many mixed race couples as quite common as I wondered along Gloucester Street.
As I walked and observed people, one thing puzzled me. In America, we are so bent to be proper and ensure everything we say or what we call things is politically correct. A black person is inappropriately called “black,” but instead the politically correct term is “African-American.” Now here is what puzzled me. What do you call a black person in the UK? An “African-Brit?”
I walked along Gloucester Street passing a number of Indian cuisine restaurants with interesting menus posted in the window, a Starbucks, pubs, and many apartment flats. I arrived at the gates of Kensington Gardens and walked along the board walk across the gardens toward Kensington Palace and Princess Di’s children’s park.
The park was bustling. Families from grandparents to grandchildren strolled along the garden’s walkways. “Mums” played “tag” with their children. A father raced his daughter to be first to touch a park bench. Another father passes a football (in America, a soccer ball) to his son. The diversity continued to strike me. I have walked through many cities and have never seen so much diversity. Only New York City comes close. And perhaps I was so taken by the diversity because I have lived in Utah too long.
Many people are out walking their dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, dogs with coats, dogs with flashing light collars and certainly no cats. Most dogs were running free unconstrained by their masters chasing squirrels, birds and other dogs. One dog saw this as an opportunity to break from its owner and dash far off into the garden. The frantic master dashed off screaming the dog’s name into the dusk of the evening weaving through the large oak tree grove of Kensington.
The stereo-typc was confirmed for me as most dogs in the park were those little, short white dogs with the beards. I am not sure of the correct breed name but I call them “Westinghouse” or “westie” for short. They look so cute with their little plaid jackets but westies think they own the park. They have a “little dog complex”.
As the sun set, darkness settled in bringing with it a fresh, new wave of chill to the evening. I made my way back out the entrance of the Garden and I wove through the London streets as busy traffic raced by. The city remained alive. With all the brick buildings, unique detail of architecture, and smoke rising from smoke stacks, I couldn’t help but to mentally drift off and visualize the city during the World War II German assualt. In my mind’s eye I could hear screaming air raid sirens echo through vacant streets with bombs exploding off in the distance of the night. It felt erry.
I found my way back to my rented apartment where my chill remained. However, this time I unlocked the magical combination to the electric heater and it eventually chased the the cold away…..and I fell into a deep, cozy sleep.
Cheers,
dale
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1 comment:
Great story Dale, I know a bit of what your going through. I was in Europe in February a couple of years ago and was always chilled to the bone. I also love observing other cultures and comparing them to "Utah". We definitely live in a bubble, a bubble I enjoy living in.
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