It’s The Small Things That Count

Ten, twenty, thirty years down the line, I am going to remember this summer quite well.  I’m going to remember standing at the base of the Palace of Westminster, staring up in awe of Big Ben.  I’m going to remember having a glass of wine atop the Eiffel Tower, overlooking the city of lights.  I’m going to remember siting on a Spanish beach, watching the sun rise over the Mediterranean sea.  I’m going to remember the highlights of this trip, because the moments that I regularly describe to you are simply unforgettable.

There are some things that I won’t remember, though.  It’s the small things that I know I will forget in due time, but it’s the small things that truly define this trip.  I don’t see a new site every day, I don’t travel Europe every weekend, and not every moment is unforgettable.  It is, however, the moments that I don’t write home about that make London what it is to me.

… It’s the pub signs that hang from bars all across the city.  They are basically a beacon informing the curious passerby, “This is a quality drinking establishment.”  Not every pub has a pub sign, but the good ones all do.  You know if you enter a pub with a pub sign that you will be treated with a comfortable atmosphere and a nice selection of clod beer.  You know that you will be treated with a good time.

… It’s the “Paddington Pause,” or inevitable delay that you will always face between the Paddington and Edgware Road Underground stations.  Every morning when I travel to work, and every evening when I come home, my train makes the short journey between these two stations.  Like clockwork, every single time that I have made the trip from one station to the other, the train will stop in the middle of the dark tunnel and “wait for the green signal.”  Sometimes it will come quickly, other times it will take a minute or two.  As the train slows down for its pause, the unknowing passengers will all rise from their seats only to find out that we are not pulling into the station.  They feel stupid, but it puts a smile on my face every time.

… It’s the endless string of street performers that are found throughout the city.  They range from stupid to funny to incredible, and they always find a way to get my spare change.  You get your musicians in the Underground, who will sit with a guitar, a saxophone, a drum or some other random instrument and play until the can play no longer.  On the South Bank you will find a variety of performances.  If you go on a Sunday, you will come across magicians, mimes, dancers or my personal favorite, the person who just sits on the ground painting a giant mural.  If you are lucky, you may came across this guy while walking down the streets of South Kensington.

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… It’s the wet spot on Edgware Road.  Where did it come from?  How come it never dries up?  Why is it always wet on this corner?  It has been one of the driest summers in  the history of London, but this one spot on Edgware Road is always wet.  Every time I pass I ask myself “How?”  It makes no sense to me.  It is a mystery.

… It’s the late night stops at Cafe Helen, our local halal distributer.  After a night on the town, nothing says home like a spicy falafel.  If you are really feeling adventurous, you can grab a mixed shawarma, the largest and most delicious of the menu items.  If you cannot decide what you want, they will impatiently skip you and go to the next person in line, because even at 4 in the morning, they’re busy.

… It’s the early morning feel of Borough Market, the hands down, no questions asked, best market in all of London.  Some people say that England doesn’t have any good food, but those people have never been to Borough Market.  There is a nonstop supply of free samples, kangaroo patties served with cranberry spread on a bun and organic juices that have seemingly been blended by God himself.  If you aren’t hungry and possibly looking to join the counter culture of London, maybe hang with some scene kids, you can head right on up to Camden Market.  If your inner fashionista is looking to make an escape, stop by Notting Hill for the Portobello Market.  When the week comes to an end in London, the markets will accept you with open arms.

… It’s being a local.  I have only been here for two months, but I feel like I know this city like the back of my hand.  When someone is standing next to a tube map with the look of utter confusion on their face, I hope that they ask me for help.  Nothing makes me feel important the way a British man asking me for directions does.  The best part is that I always have an answer.  I can always figure out how to get there.  It makes this city feel like home.

… It’s stopping everything I’m doing, looking around and thinking to myself where I am.  I am 3,000 miles from home and I’m crossing London Bridge, walking through Hyde Park, standing on the sidewalk wondering what I did so right to end up here.

… It’s hearing the accents… it’s watching football… it’s saying cheers instead of thank you… it’s drinking a Budweiser on the Fourth of July… It’s learning about Le Tour de France… it’s teaching coworkers about baseball by informing them that David Ortiz is a disgraced steroid user and George Steinbrenner was the most beloved owner in American sports…

It’s the small things that seem so unimportant at the time that count the most.

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