Dispatch Number Two
Riding the Tube
To Liverpool Street.
DATELINE:
Wednesday, October 4, 2000, at 1200 hours CDT.
London, England.
By Mickey Miles
SPECIAL to CornDancer.com
EDITOR'S NOTE: Mr. Miles is a professional journalist and political operative who moved to London in summer, 2000, to explore a new line of endeavour.
You know that song, Life is a highway, I want to travel all night long. Substitute the word subway for highway. I live in subways -- or at least, the time I spend in them takes up a great part of my life.
Although I live in London, one of the greatest cities on earth, I could be anywhere where there is a great population requiring transportation to and from the centers of the city.
I am a country boy from Arkansas. I had never ridden on a subway in my life until I moved to New York a few months ago. Now that was a shock to the system. I did not know what would happen to me when I rode the subway. I remember I asked a colleague at work, female persuasion who lived in my neighborhood, to ride with me. This might sound strange to someone accustomed to riding subways, but I was afraid of riding them.
Where would I end up? What would happen to me? Could I get back? Would I get on the wrong train?
The Silence of Mighty Mountains.
I guess you could laugh. I laugh myself now, but for those who chuckle, let me take you to a different part of the planet and plop you down in the mighty Ouachita Mountains, the great Arkansas outback. City folks, so sophisticated in their ways, might feel the same fear, the same trepidation when the silence of those mighty mountains closed in around them.
It's just fear of the unknown, the new -- and it is okay.
Now I ride the Tube in London. Months of riding have taught me the rules. I catch the Piccadilly Line at Knightsbridge Station before 7 a.m. Now that is key: the earlier, the better. And I love, absolutely love, London, by God England in the morning. It may be raining, it may be sunny, it may be foggy, but the early morning hours are the best in this magnificent city.
Wearing my power suit, briefcase in hand, shined shoes clicking on cobblestone pavement, I walk the seven-minute walk to Knightsbridge Underground. If you saw me, you would not know that I am Arkie. I can skin a buck, noodle for catfish, or cook a mess a squirrels that will make your mouth water.
Here, I am a player on a different stage. There are many players like me on the stage here, so I don't stick out. But out in the country, in Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Bristol, or in Scotland, in Edinburgh or Glasgow, I cut a swath. They hear I am from London and that makes a difference, but when I speak, that really makes a difference.
A Deep Descent to the Piccadilly Line.
Back to the subway. Catch the Tube early. One (notice how English I sound) uses a Travelcard to get through the tollgates and then drops down some 200 feet, descending by escalator to the Piccadilly Line, which goes east to my ultimate destination.
You have your newspaper tucked under your arm. Here they read newspapers. Lots of newspapers. A New York Times editor told me the other day that 14 million newspapers are sold every day in England. In the United States, a population of over 200 millions buys 17 million papers; here, 55 millions buy the 14 million.
England is the second best-read country in the world, second only to Japan, when it comes to daily newspapers. They love newspapers here. Seven broadsheets and a number of tabloids thrive here.
Waiting for the arrival of the subway, one stands along a train-length runway behind a yellow line. The best thing is to walk to the end of the line. Don't look at people. Ignore them and walk to the end. Glance at the clock and catch the next subway. It is not crowded this time of day. You can always get a seat. My routine is automatic now.
People are always asking for directions.
"Does this train go to Green Park?"
"Yes, no problem." They look at you strangely, not recognizing the accent.
At Liverpool Street Station.
At Holborn, I catch the Central Line for Liverpool Street Station. The pace picks up. More people, more hurried walks. The names of the stops are so much fun: Piccadilly Square, Leicester Square, Covent Garden, and from the Central Line, Chancery Lane, St. Paul's, Bank.
At Liverpool Street Station, I pop into a different world. English businessmen dressed to the nine's. Beautiful English women, all business. The heart of the City, where the new Internet computer world rubs against the ancient city. Where billions of dollars are traded daily. And the old Arkie walks amongst them. Trading blows as he finds his way.
They never heard of Caddo Gap. Haven't tasted coon at Gillette, nor fried catfish in Clarendon, nor barbeque at McClard's. And I can survive here, and maybe thrive in their world. How would they do in mine?
EDITOR'S NOTE:
WATCH FOR DISPATCH NUMBER THREE
in your mailbox on Wednesday, October 11, 2000.
If you don't care for any more Dispatches, let us know.
We will remove you from the subscription list
immediately upon your demand.
On the other hand,
if you want to add a friend or associate to the list,
please forward their name and email address to
ebenezer@corndancer.com
Visit the web site at www.corndancer.com
| ©2000 by David Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles |
| Send
e-mail | 501.450.7989 |