Exasperation Becomes
Fascination when the
Last Hostage Is Set Free.

Dispatch Number Sixteen

Liberation
in a Maddening City.

DATELINE:
Sunday, November 24, 2002, at 2300 hours CDT.

SPECIAL to corndancer.com

"Free at last. Free at last. Great God Almighty, free at last!"   — Rev. Martin Luther King

By Mickey Miles

LONDON — I have lived in this city of some seven million for over two years now. And I have to say... for the most part... it has not been a pleasant experience. Maybe some day I will look back on it and say, 'My you have grown.' Or perhaps, look at what all you learned.

Not now. The wounds are too fresh and the blood is still oozing.

Living in London can be a cold, mind-numbing experience. The English here, most of them anyway, are chain cigarette-smoking, bitter-swilling sports addicts, more interested in whether it was David Beckham or Michael Owen who scored that last goal than the coming war with Iraq or whether England should adopt the Euro.

They say illiteracy in this country of 75 million odd, and I do mean odd, people is extremely high — and I believe them. Sad when you consider this is the birthplace of Shakespeare. I can't recall meeting so many ignorant people in once place in my lifetime.

Binge Drinking, Sleeping Rough.

I have also read that some 10 million have alcohol problems. That doesn't surprise me. I love pubs myself, but I go home early and limit the night to a few pints. The popular thing here, especially among the young, is to go pub-crawling and binge drinking.

In the morning hours when I walk to work, the sidewalks are slick with vomit. Dark corners smell of urine. In many doorways, one sees huddled masses in sleeping bags — rough sleeping, the locals call it.

The transit system is a shambles, the crime rating soars, hospitals over-flow, they can't find enough nurses, and the education system is falling apart. And now they want to legalize marijuana.

I say all of this, not to pick on the English, but to paint a bit of a picture of what it is like living in London. I am not a tourist. I don't have friendly smiling faces saying hello and offering to pick up my bags. No one pats me on the back and says thanks for what you Americans did in World War Two. I don't expect them to.

The City

I'm a workingman. I work, and now live, in what is called The City — and that is with a capitol "C" because The City is the financial heart and brains of London, and one of the key money and power centers in the world. And as a matter of fact, as a financial journalist I write and edit stories about the London stock market.

One might say, 'Well you must make a lot of money and have a great amount of prestige.' The fact of the matter is that while I do make a nice living, London is one of the most expensive cities in the world. At the end of the day it isn't how much you make, but rather how much you keep. I have no prestige and live an anonymous life. I don't wear a suit to work anymore.

A couple of examples of the living expense: Gasoline costs almost $5 a gallon here. If Americans had to pay $100 to fill up their tanks, they would holler like hit dogs you can bet. People pay $1000 a month to keep their cars in locked garages. I don't have a car. I'm not sure I could afford one.

Another thing that used to eat up my paycheck was rent. I was paying over $2,000 a month for a one-bedroom flat. Nice neighborhood in Knightsbridge and only a few blocks from Harrods, but the cost was high.

They Expect, They Demand.

Speaking of work: The company I work for is extremely demanding. You are well paid, well insured and heavily monitored. They expect, and demand, an eleven-to-twelve-hour day. They expect, and demand, perfection and punctuality. They expect, and demand, that you raise the level of whatever game you are playing.

They never actually threatened to fire me, but circumstances, both at work and at home, forced me to change jobs within the company and to learn new skills, altered my working hours from day to night, and put me under enormous pressure. In short, they did just about all they could do to run me off.

Many was the time I told myself that I had had enough, and that tomorrow I would hand in my resignation. Three things kept me going: encouragement from my brave wife, my newly revived religious faith, and my own doggedness.

At my annual review, they found sins of omission and commission, and declined to give me a raise. Fine, I told myself, I will give myself one. Further, I figured it was time I was liberated.

Liberation 1, 2, 3.

I said "used to pay high rent." A couple of months ago I got tired of paying the high rent in Knightsbridge. I was sick of riding the stinking, unreliable underground Tube to work and paying $100 a month to be treated like some kind of penned animal enroute to the slaughterhouse.

When I moved to London two years ago my company paid to move my furniture and me. I have asked to be transferred to the states, but they have declined to grant my request, in effect holding me and my furniture hostage. If I had told them to stick it in their grommet and quit, I would have had to pay my own way home. As I say, I hung in there.

My wife was not happy living in London. Although she never said so, partly it was my fault. Pressure and long hours at work did not make me a fun person to live with. And she did not like London. She was offered a job and a great opportunity to return to our home state. After lengthy discussion, we decided it was the best thing. One hostage was freed.

A few months ago I decided it was time I was liberated. I paid to ship our furniture back to the states. Two hostages freed.

I found a flat 15 minutes from work and cut my rent payment in half. Best of all, I liberated my bicycle.

Bike out of the Box.

For two years my new blue Raleigh hybrid bike with 21 gears was boxed up because flat rules said you could not have a bike in a flat. For two years I tried to get the porters to find me a place for my bike, even offering to pay a monthly fee. The head porter, one of those civil servant types who, when given a little power, forgets that his primary purpose is to serve. He was never helpful.

Now I walk to work. Takes me 15 minutes. I have a covered, locked garage and a bicycle rack in which to keep my trusty steed. Every weekend now I fire my bike up and take on the world. During the week I plot the next trip, check the weather forecast, and download maps.

I also use my bike for practical matters. For example I ride my bike to the grocery store near Liverpool Street Station and load my panniers with groceries. For my money the best way to explore London and England is by bicycle.

At Last, a Time to Enjoy.

At the end of the day, my bicycle has helped liberate me. It allows me to have a nice trip to Buckingham Palace, or to explore Wadhurst in the country. I am able at long last to enjoy this unique country, its fascinating culture, and this one of a kind and maddening city, London.

At work? Well, now I have a beard, which they hate. I don't wear a suit and a tie, which they tolerate. Fire me? Go ahead. My work is exemplary, but no longer will I go the extra mile. Life is better. I am home earlier, sleep later, and have less stress. Three hostages freed.

Here is what liberation means to me now. I ride my bike across London Bridge to Borough Market. I buy three tins of Foie Gras, a jar of Confit d' Oignons, Pop-Pan Savory Chinese Crackers, and a bottle of 1998 Atrium red wine. I load my provisions in my backpack, bicycle onto the London Bridge, roll back across the River Thames, and retreat to my flat in Whitechapel. I get to the flat just as the rain starts and stow my bike. Once behind closed doors, dry and warm, I crank-up the stereo, the Rolling Stones 40 Licks cd, and devour my goose liver, onion relish, crackers and red wine.