Letter from London: Love on the Tube
I’ve lived in London for just over three weeks now, and for the first time in maybe forever, I’m the loudest person in the room because, well, in comparison to New York, London is QUIET. Even the tube (yes, I’m a Londoner now, so I call it the “tube”) is a mute space breeding judging eyes and cold shoulders towards those who don’t follow the proper tube etiquette of whispering, or even better, remaining completely silent.
And so, during the 7 AM rush hour traffic, my friends and I can no longer chat away with our usual gossip, leaving us with few options to pass the time. I’m left with my own thoughts and observations during my 20 minute commute from the Canada Water station, where I share a flat with my best friends, to the Bond Street station, where I transfer to the Central Line to finish the rest of my commute to school, which is routinely interrupted at every stop by a recorded announcement warning that “thieves operate at this station” (London lingo for: watch your back).
As I’m reminded of what it means to be American in a foreign country, I’ve been struck by countless occurrences of unfamiliarity and stress, from realizing the passive aggressive use of the word “sorry” in this country (as in “sorry you bumped into me” or “sorry you were in my way”) to the overwhelmingly obvious love for silence. My commute has become a game of how many differences I could spot between London and New York. And the most major difference I’ve noticed thus far? The men.
On my way home from class last week, my dreary, jet-lagged, and mentally exhausted self trudged my way to the Chancery Lane station. I plopped myself between a handsome bachelor and a rosy-cheeked bachelorette, who were undeniably perfect for each other but whose chances at a fairy tale love story were quashed by my lazy and sweaty presence. But, where one love story ends, another begins, and just as I interrupted the locked eyes of eligible millennials, I caught a glimpse of what I assumed to be the peak of a universally coveted love story.
He was tall and lanky, so much so that his belt could’ve used a few extra notches. With shaggy dark hair and a pale, adolescent face, I would’ve assumed he was a member of the giddy adolescent group seated beside him. His freshly dry-cleaned navy suit, perfectly ironed button down shirt, and glossy brown Oxford shoes, however, proved his maturity as they accentuated his professional stance: tall, assertive, and charmingly intimidating. He didn’t just carry his briefcase, he nursed it like a child, which was satisfyingly ironic because of what was opened on his lap. How To Be a Great Dad, a seemingly short but obviously informational book, was personalized with yellow highlighted phrases, black ink in the margins, and pale yellow sticky notes of all sizes.
Needless to say, I was dumbfounded. Never in my time riding a New York subway, or really ever in my time in New York in general, had I seen such a kind, innocent, genuine gesture from a man, especially in such a public setting where nosy bystanders, like myself, could gawk in amazement. I had assumed all hope for romance and family had been lost. I mean, the last time I rode the subway in New York, I watched a man swipe right on Tinder so many times, his phone froze. My hopes of finding the perfect guy seemed to be slipping from my fingers. But apparently, all I had to do was move to London.
Just as we approached Waterloo Station, his phone rang, and when he realized “Babe” was calling, he shared the first sign of his dimples. “I’m just getting off the train! Meet at our usual spot?” I got butterflies just thinking about having a “usual spot” with such a wholesome sweetheart.
I waved an internal goodbye to the epitome of my ideal husband as we sped away from the platform. And just as I was about to sulk at the “one that got away,” I locked eyes with the handsome college student seated across from me. I think I’m going to like London!
Cameron Price, FCRH ‘20, is an English major studying in London during the Spring 2020 semester. She will be writing her "London Letter" biweekly.