After class and catching up on homework, I decided to go in search of that adapter I so desperately need. Naturally I went alone; it was the middle of the afternoon and I was only going nearby. I fetched my purse and my sweater and walked jauntily out into the sunshine.
Bayswater was busy with tourists and those charity causes (I'm pretty sure Americans just ring a bell, rather than attack and shake the bucket under your nose), so I dove into a Tesco and bought some chocolate. No luck with that adapter, and since I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, I just continued down to the end of the street. I turned into the neighborhoods and decided to take the long way home.
The pastel and marble-colored neighborhoods here are fairly wealthy--it does take quite the income to procure a flat in the city as it is, much less one with parking and a yard. I did my fair share of admiring, but it wasn't the houses I was looking at; boisterous butterfly bushes, wild ivy, and spindly bleeding hearts were everywhere, threatening to escape their iron fences and little yards. It was refreshing that wealthy people in such an old city still cling to nature. Perhaps that's the charm missing from places like New York and Chicago; the utter man-madeness of it all wears and tears at the natural inclination for wilderness and countryside.
In all my admiration, it wasn't too long before I saw a parish church that I did not recognize in the slightest. Without mountains to tell me where east was, I chose a direction and marched, hoping to emerge on Queensway or Bayswater. But no such luck; I seemed to delve deeper into the neighborhoods, where women with prams and joggers ruled. At first I was frustrated that none of the streetnames were numbered in such a way as to give any hints, but what would they say? It's all a giant spiderweb, and I was certainly going in circles.
At length, I came to another chapel called St. Stephen's, which had a little garden out front. I sat on the bench to do a bit of people-watching and gain a sense of direction. As I threw away my Lion Bar wrapper, I saw Hereford Road across the street--the road that got me home from the airport the week before! Past the Cafe Nero, onto Moscow Road, and an hour later than I'd intended, I made it back to the Centre. Others were impressed, but I certainly wasn't; if I'd been with any of them, they wouldn't have crossed Portobello Road the wrong way. Will it break me of wandering off on my own? Probably not. How else are we to know this city without a little confusion?
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