Johnny Rebel Meets Progressive Europe
Part I
9.12.00
Ride to the airport was alright. Dad told me stories of some of his favorite police car chases as we drove past plantations-turned-chemical-plants in the early, late-autumn evening. I've been reading a lot about the record number of customer complaints being filed with airline services. I assumed this was telling me something about how the airlines have been running their business, but my walk through the stuffed terminal proved that it just reflects the customers, themselves. Dressed like shit in their shorts, skidded sneakers, rock-N-roll T-shirts, constantly complaining to their companions about how gypped they are getting, then turning a smile & "thank you" to the representatives. The slightly miffed guy behind gate C27 had a slight, but interesting European accent, as opposed to all the other airport employees, whose accents were heavy and assertive of my attention. I didn't want to hang too close to my Dad since he was dressed casual and carrying a pair of snazzy shoes while I was dressed sharp and wearing a pair of [brand new, unworn] sneakers. But I boarded with only one pair of shoes; into 1st class, no less. It was a bit chincy, but I told Mom I loved her and I feel good about it.
The plane taxied for an extra hour, which is fine by me since it means landing in London at 7:00 AM instead of 6. I'm sitting next to a regular 1st class flyer who, when I heard him order a gin&tonic, could swear he sounded exactly like Lemmy Kilmeister. Take-off was fantastic. Clouds must have been solid, bleached cauliflower puffs. Very aquatic, though I found Mt. Olympus across the way. A short shard of rainbow appeared, began to curve underneath the plane, then we turned, tilted, and lost it underneath. A very Scandinavian man is in the middle three seats with his 11-year-old daughter and 13-year-old son, both excruciatingly blonde all over. The captain told us that there were reports of some turbulence along the route. Then he told us to be prepared for extreme turbulence - not what I wanted to hear 1500 miles from the nearest opportunity for an early unscheduled landing. Watched High Fidelity through dinner. Mix tapes - gross. The moon is close to full and the Atlantic Ocean is covered with an even cloud layer of uniform, terse dunes, looking like an enchanted Arabian caravan's mapless voyage.
Immaculate nothing for as far as my eyes can stretch.
Landed around 7:00 AM London time, winding my watch 5 hours up. After exchanging $200 in travelers' cheques, I walked up to the "Hotel/Hostel/B&B" information desk and asked the Indian man behind the counter for any information on Raleigh Gardens. He checked his computer, said it wasn't on his list, and advised me on how to dial Information for their phone #. I already had it, so he rang them up for me. As it was ringing, he asked me what faith I practiced. I told him how I was raised Christian, but have Muslim and Orthodox Jewish friends, and have studied Hinduism, Rastafari, Buddhism and Sikhism. He told me of a discussion group he attended in Brixton - the phone hit an answering service and we talked a little bit about where I was from.
In order to pay for tube fare, I bought a 6, maybe 5 oz. bottle of water to break a 20-pound note. The pound and 25 price felt alarmingly steep, until I looked around and realized, "where else an a foreigner break a note?" I had to wait for a good-looking like cook to serve the 4 people ahead of me. In front of me in the queue for the tube ticket machine were some travelers from another European country who were trying to figure out, in broken English, how to use it - a refreshing trend which soothed me a great deal for the next 16 days. My ticket to Brixton cost just under 4 pounds. It was so relieving to see tourists of all colors consulting their maps in the middle of the tube station bustle. If I was a "fooking umarican", than there were plenty of bloody Asians, Indians, Krauts, and Frogs to make me, by comparison, feel quite capable. The tube was only running as far as Victoria Station. Well, fuck, what do I do then? After trepidly disembarking, I gawked and bounced my way around Victoria Station until I convinced a bobby to guide me to the bus which would complete my route - 4 more tube stops to Brixton.
Morning in Brixton. I can feel a sense of recuperation in the greasy smog. After noticing the notebook-size signs for "End of Brixton Line" I jump out and ease into my stranger in a strange land. I'm wearing my slacks, tie, button-up shirt and running shoes while hoisting an overstuffed backpack and my airforce sling-bag. The streets are pretty vacant. The only other people walking with any sense of purpose are older women in their sharp Sunday best, which actually reassures me since I look pretty church myself. I have no idea where Raleigh Gardens is so I divert from the main strip into a newsstand. The turbanned proprietor doesn't know so I head in the same direction I started in - no sense making U-turns already.
Up the street I pass a club which sounds and appears impossibly open. Outside it are enough homeless blacks and young whites to block the 8-foot-wide sidewalk and I have to step through them like class-war landmines. Across the street to my left is Electric Avenue and I think how fortunate I am to have not just one ("The Guns of Brixton" by the Clash) but TWO theme songs to sing in my head after only being here 5 minutes. Tear it up, Eddie Grant.
A small, urban "park" opens up between the oncoming and forthgoing traffic for a block and a half. Sleeping bodies are strewn about in various states of waking up. In another newsstand (what else would be open?) I get directions to Brixton Hill, which are basically, continue north, it's on your left.
I follow the signs to Raleigh Gardens, which is a quaint piece of residentiality amidst the grey wind of the rest of the city. Behind a thick patch of woods I find 3-4, in front of which are a row of a dozen full trash cans with some trash collected outside them. I looked up at the house-hotel and amused myself with the naive thought "that doesn't look like the picture on the website."
First, I notice the soiled shoes and other slobby knicknacks on the second floor window sill. I look for someone in the first floor windows, but they both look empty. I thought my reluctance was nervous uptight fear until I noticed the knocked-out window hole surrounded by shattered glass above the front door.
This was no place I felt safe leaving my bags and [yikes] moneys while I caroused the city all day. With my mind already in Camden Town, evaluating the hostels, their capacities and locations, I turned heel on the greystone gravel, bid farewell to the trashcans and made for the small clearing between the two expanses of trees. Much like a horror movie, the exit back to the main strip did not seem to get any closer even though my steps grew faster. I was quite scared some hunchbacked groundskeeper was going to call after me when I was met with my first splash of sunlight.
I passed Red Records, "Black Music Specialists", picked up a 15 oz. bottle of water for 79 pence, and made my way back the exact route I took up to Brixton Hill. Goodbye Eddie Grant. Goodbye still-pumpin' club with the spliff-smoke leaking out. Goodbye sidewalk-huddled transients. I found the bus stop with no problems. A bus soon pulled up and I asked the driver how much the fare is to "Victoria", trying to sound slick by omitting the superfluous "Station".
"Ten pounds if you haven't got a ticket."
I was speechless. All the stations are closed, that's why I have to take the bloody bus. I stare while trying to figure out my next move, still time-wastingly {what's a better term for that [ed: How bout, "silently stalling"?]} silent.
"Kem-ohn." And he waves me in.
I thank him and climb upstairs. We pass a nicely graffitied skatepark on the way to the station. The city looks a little more awake, about a quarter after 9:00.
Victoria Station is huge and high. Although I had to use the bathroom, I am fundamentally opposed to paying for it, so I begin the NYC habit of toilet alert, eyes always peeled for a public restroom or hidden alley corner. People who act like they know will often warn you from reading a street map out in the open. What they never tell you is that this only applies to the less-populated half of travel destinations. Shit, I don't think I saw anybody with out a street map in there. Probably because the Britons know how to get from point A to terminal B in a straight line while the rest of us say "wow", loud. I actually spent a few minutes just listening to all the British accents and their collective domed echo until I asked a bobby to help me on my way. Again, while in line for tube tickets, I sized up the folks in front of me for a quick confidence shot.
The Camden Town tube stop pretty much spits you out into C. Town. I looked at the street map outside the tube station to find which direction 4850 Camden High St. was. This was the address of my first choice in hostels - St. Christopher's - Camden Town. Ah, that patron saint of travelers. I walked up Camden High St. (right in front of the tube station), reaching the address of 348 before it turned into another street. The idea of walking 45 blocks up seemed flat out wrong. So I walked back to the street map, which showed me nothing new, but I did notice a gym right across the street. I walked up to 348 again to see if I could catch a glimpse of a detour or continuation of the street somewhere, but Camden High St. just pain ended. Well, I know that the street continues in the other direction, so maybe it's some British thing and something magical happens to the numbers down that way. I pass the street map again, and , for no reason, consult it. I'm checking out the post office, electronics supplies stores, and video rental places - all the usual hip city shit, when I spot Belushi's Bar, which I read is underneath St. Christopher's. So what the fuck is this address? 48-50, you dumb ninny. I walked around the side. "Hostel enquiries at bar" the sign says. I go back to the entrance and pull on the door. It's locked and I can see all the stools are still upside down on the tables. As I curse out loud and look up at the second- and third-floor hostel, a passerby tells me, "11:00, mate. Everything here." Cheers. I look at my watch, 10:42.
"It used to be 12," he called over his shoulder as he continued on his way.
©2001- Chris Hebbe
About the Author: The Author will provide more infomation when he damned well pleases.