Selected Cronicas

LONDON’S BRIDGES

Every time I think of London I can see those bridges again. I felt quite at home in London, but to think that I actually lived there for a time now makes me realize my good fortune. For me, London was mysterious and pulsating with life, yet grey. And everything grey has a strange effect on me, as if all the muted shades were being merged into one.

I saw the ugliness of the English at close quarters, which is one of the most appealing things about England. It is such a peculiar ugliness, and yet so beautiful. I am being serious. The winters were chilly and the harsh wind brought a rosy colour to cheeks and hands which made people look all too real. Women in London go shopping with baskets; the men who work in the City wear bowler-hats. And the Thames looks foul with its muddy waters. London was once stricken by plague. And a great fire razed the entire city to the ground. I could sense the presence of both plague and fire when I lived there.

Londoners drink the most horrid coffee out of large cups which give off steam. The whole island gives off steam, its blackened bridges emerging from perpetual mist. Fog emanates from the city’s cobblestones and enshrouds the bridges. London’s bridges make a deep impression. Some are solid and menacing. Others almost skeletal.

The English themselves are not all that intelligent. Yet England has shown herself to be one of the most intelligent nations in the world. We went around by car. There are mazes of tiny villages between one large town and the next. A fine drizzle spatters on the car windows. People on the streets are so badly dressed that they end up giving the impression of being quite stylish. And they do know how to wrap up in bad weather. I can picture a child I once saw, smothered in a heavy, dark overcoat, wearing thick woollen socks and a hood which tied under the chin. The child had a pinched little face with bright, knowing eyes and rosy cheeks. And that pure intonation peculiar to English voices, at once superior and questioning.

Only now do I appreciate just how much I loved those London winds which made my eyes water and caused my skin to look chapped.

And then there were those outings into the countryside and the English landscape which is so unlike any other. I can still see those incredibly tall trees.

The English love exploring their own island and there is a sense of restless toing and froing in all directions.

A visit to the theatre in London is a memorable experience. Watching English actors sends a shiver down the spine. The English actor is the most serious man in England. Within the space of a few hours, he makes each member of the audience aware of those essential things one tends to lose sight of in everyday life. You step out of the theatre into rain and darkness, on to wet pavements and those quaint English streets which make one long for some perilous adventure. We go to dinner. The traditional fare served in English restaurants is quite dreadful and makes one irritable. Fortunately there are plenty of ethnic restaurants in London where the food is much more appetising.

Remnants of medieval England can be seen in the city’s towers. The self-assurance of certain Englishmen can be amusing. Accustomed to war, they stride rather than walk along the pavements. And were the world not such a sad place, this struggle for survival might have a certain charm.

I remember with affection English writers who are no longer alive. Especially D.H. Lawrence.

The Queen has a sweet smile. English newspapers are curiously provincial. Any English men or women with good features somehow acquire an extraordinary beauty. But English children are always endearing and when they open their little mouths to speak, they become irresistible.

I am indulging in nostalgia as I try to recapture my memories of London from random notes. I am writing this in haste before they fade forever.