Johnny Rebel Meets Progressive Europe
Part II
While I wait, I think about how I must look - perched outside a youth hostel on a Sunday morning in my nice clothes, clean-shaven beard, with stuffed backpack & bag. I'm pretty much prime for the Gank. Like I'm waiting for some petty thief or street hustler to approach me, then leave me waiting here with less. But that's just exactly it. I am. Shall I try to "act" (i.e. fake) like I'm something/body else? Just as I get myself situated on top of the newspaper vender, I think to call Erin.
Considering how long it took me to open the payphone door, 10:42 doesn't seem the original task I took it for. Never having paid for a long distance call on a pay phone before, the entire politic of dropping-coins-as-you-go leaves me frustratingly unprepared and, like I never pictured myself doing, banging plastic public property. I did manage to get a grasp of London's numerical syntax for its telephone numbers; and I managed to leave a message of [gasp] all the info of my current whereabouts on Erin's cellular voicemail. My current whereabouts...
Just what are they?, I think, reperched and no longer as gankable as I slip and loop my ankle inside a backpack strap. Leaning back, I survey the CamdenTownSundayMorning - get a sense of nearby shops, time-population assessments, traffic behavior. I keep my eyes peeled for weary travelers with the same idea I had, but all I see is a soiled landscape basking in rare sunlight. I got the sense that it knew shadow, but not shadows.
As soon as the fruit venders arrived and ovens began firing up, I noticed a few of Belushi's stools on the floor, and possibly a stuffed employee-style T-shirt should I feel tactless enough to crowd the glass with my open hands and face. A bleary, yet gainingly energetic young man, possessing a face which benefitted tremendously from a skipped shave gave me the 1-minute-please finger and unlocked the door not much more than a minute later. Although busy with pre-prioritized gruntwork he was accommodating in a refreshingly honest manner. Any more accommodating and I'd have been washing down my complimentary scrambled eggs with a fresh pint. A girl in a similar T-shirt slyly emerged already in pace with the {watch-check} 9-minute late opening scramble. We made our eventual way to the cash register, where we were joined by an older, more seasoned man of even more refreshing competence.
"Don't mind him," he advised, gesturing to the guy who let me in, "He's Welsh."
I beamed like McCauley Caulkin! Whitey-on-Whitey racism in the door to Europe! Although the older guy took care of my business, Welsh Guy managed to prep me on American > British English 101 with a host of about eight "cheers"es used for seemingly endless conversational sentiments.
Arriving without any reservation got me pessimistic well-wishes and eye expressions, but I got accommodation nonetheless. I could only pay for tonight, since they were fully booked for the next, but I didn't think it was worth much consternation. I was handed my keycard [yessss] which didn't even get me though the door leading to the stairs leading to the upper-floor hostel [shit]. I had to interrupt and ask for help, The girl rescanned it, and I somehow got four more cheers' from the Welshman. This one got me out of the bar but not into the stairwell. At least I haven't tried leaving yet. Welshman reassured me that three is the charm, personally led me through the first two doors, and, six cheers' later I was up the stairs and opening the door to the third floor.
My room was the last door. On a prayer I made it in: sink (with mirror) on the left, three bunkbeds with thick-ass comforters and... no people. I saw piles of travel accessories against the wall and between the two bed furthest from the (right on) bay window facing Camden High St. This suited me fine as I'm a consummate sucker for views and boy did I like this one. Not only are most of the buildings only two stories high, I also get a view of the concrete patios of the second floor rooms below. And, man, do they look cool.
I popped my shoes off and didn't think twice about walking around this floor in my socks. You have to shut the door to the clean-tiled shower (which exists inside the sink-wall) since it's narrow quarters and lack of nozzle range could easily soak your day with invisible floor puddles.
People were beginning to get out onto the streets and march through their first chore of the week - whatever drags you out into the [yes, even in London] sunshine, after a mid-August Saturday night. The more people who came out, the more at ease I felt. What really struck me was how appropriately loose everybody was. Not only were they letting it all hang out (which most of us would be apt to do) but I felt a general sense of peeps that I wouldn’t have recognized until right then. The perv in me starts to see all these hot people I had never entertained serious sexual thoughts of. Whenever I start getting all horned up in another city, the prime articulation of that sensation, Sixteen by Iggy Pop plays in my head. I think he wrote that song when he moved to Berlin to jam with David Bowie. I started getting pretty hot so I began masturbatorial reconnaisance: kneel down to check out the crotch-level views from each window (the idea of eyes in corners I would never know turned me off, this was my spy scene); chain bolt the door, then, after soaking up a wonderful 2 ½ minutes of the lucious menu High St. had become, I made my mad dash to the sink, relishing in the idea that at this certain point, I no longer care if my unmet roomates walk in.
In the shower I opened a brand new box of of soap and smelled British tap water. Back out, I situated into just one carried bag, pooled my daily allowance of funds, stylized my money belt, threw on my street clothes with a good American belt buckle and, hit the road.
Planting my hands once per floor, I hopped all the half-floor stairwells, clearing my key on the first try all the way down. Glancing at the ever-opening pub on the ground floor, I knew that getting back up couldn’t be anything worse than a fun problem. Upon exiting the side entrance, I came straight out into the sun, which stopped me.
Shit.
"I gotta take this all in."
Heading east on High St., the more I didn’t need to read the map outside the tube station, the more pleasure I took in doing so. I didn’t even have a destination to locate on the map this time. Vendors were setting up shop. I saw an attractive fruit stand across the street, but did not cross to get anything. The first record shop I walked into had (doy) all these amazing records - out-of-print original pressings, bootlegs, prices to match. I could have so easily spent all my money for the whole trip in there.
Back outside, I gave Erin another try, got cut off a couple times until she convinces me to just put in a shitload of coins before I even dial. She has to go to work but I should call her in a bit on her cell phone.
Next up on my right was a maze of craft stalls, zig-zagging like a roller coaster queue. I turned in and found it shoulder-to-shoulder with patrons & vendors. The whole scene was cram-packed with CD bootlegs, headshop wares and fashion trends I would never know. I made sure to cover every nook & cranny knowing that on one of the south (?) walls was a pose waiting for me to strike.
Through the message board of one of their web sites, I was emailed that the cover of the Clash’s first album was photographed “somewhere in the maze of markets.” Sure enough, at the very last end corner of the stalls, was the ramp space I could surely match to the green, orange, black, and white album cover, and all the music contained therein.
I looked and stood for a minute, playing songs in my head, time-capsuling to the notion that, had the Rolodex of Time made a miniscule error, I'd be standing right next to them. I don't much subscribe to the notion of idol-worship, but art lends itself to the notion that energies/vibrations can be picked up by a believing listener. And I believe life is better when one chooses to believe.
Walking out of my meditation, I decided to ring Erin up again. After depositing a pound into the phone, I dialed, she answered, and after explaining the late night she had, we made plans to meet in front of Camden Market in an hour & a half. The call was over quickly and the read-out inside the phone box read about 45 pence. Cool, change. I hit the change return lever. Oh, sod it.
I walked past all the swish leather & fashion shops, picked up a Psychic T.V. button and into a book store called Compendium. Before I even decided where to browse, I caught a brilliant book I had never known existed "Iggy & the Stooges 1971-73" * a photographer's document of the band during that period. I had just picked up a CD of studio outtakes from that (post-"Raw Power") era of the band and got really interested in the directions they were honing in on. Scotty Ashton sure looked pretty rough. I never realized how fine a line it was between gutter-slob and glam. Saw some old printings of Aleister Crowley and Celine. Checked out a European cannabis magazine, which read the same as North American ones. Skimmed some books on shamanism and astral projection, then some doomsday prophesies.
Feeling a bit hungry, I picked up a samosa from a street vendor, eating underneath the Camden Market sign. While I ate, a thin black woman approached me offering "Skunk? Hash?" My mouth full, I turned my head humming "Mm, mm" and she continued about her routes.
Another 20 minutes to kill, I crossed the street into a real swish shop and browsed posters, greeting cards, and magazines until I bought some juice and headed back to my old spot infront of the Market sign.
Another 10 minutes passed before Erin arrived, during which I saw the same thin black woman meet up with a scraggly white geezer who both looked around, pushing their bottom lips up with stiff chins, exchanging lazy frustrations under their breath. When Erin showed up, we were both happy to see each other. She asked where I had been. Right here in front of the Camden Market. She explained that this was the Sunday Market and the Camden Market was up the street. Very well.
As we walked up there, the precious sun was waning. Some bloke sitting on the handrail of a bridge told me "Nice shirt, mate." Erin & I explored the Camden Lock, more fashion and fetish, along with the latest club gear. The outside vendors displayed a wide variety of rock-N-roll videos, which held me excited until the rain clouds arrived and everyone closed shop. We picked up a couple of sandwiches and we watched shopkeepers and their help move different-sized boxes of barely-precious inventory out of the rain while she told me about her unemployment situation, her trip to Amsterdam and a mutual friend she caught up with in Prague who invited her to a weekend in a castle there along with some other Czechs * the whole place to themselves.
I told her about my plans and observations thus far. She asked where my bags were. "At my hostel." You could have stayed in my flat. As luck would have it, I had only paid for tonight's stay since they were booked for the following nights. She began working again tomorrow, so I could catch up with her in the morning, drop off my things, then go exploring. We chatted and watched other people work until the rain let up then took a walk while Erin pointed out sights.
©2001- Chris Hebbe
About the Author: The Author will provide more infomation when he damned well pleases.
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