I don’t really mind being alone. Ok, that’s sort of a lie. Sometimes it tears me apart inside, when the loneliness sets in. But there’s a distinction between being alone and being lonely, and I really sometimes like the former. Lonely means lacking in human interaction when you most crave it. Alone means solitary reflections, basking in your thoughts, sometimes in a made-up world that’s so much cooler than your own.
One of my favorite things to do in New York, especially at the beginning of the semester when it was still warm out, was to grab my iPod and walk down the block to Columbus Circle, then sit at the foot of the massive statue of old Christopher himself, under the angel, watching the fountain. This was particularly soothing when I was still in mourning over Michael Jackson, whose music has had such an amazing impact on my entire life, and I’d just slip on my headphones and blast “Heal the World,” lost in my thoughts. Similarly, one of my favorite things to do in Wisconsin is just drive around by myself, music blasting loud, singing at the top of my lungs with the windows open. Alone can mean jubilation, a secret happiness which leads to you smiling when no one else knows why.
Last night I found myself alone, though again, not necessarily lonely. It was one or two in the morning, and my mom would’ve killed me if she had found out, never mind that London is way safer than New York ever was. I caught the last, nearly empty train to Baker Street. Some people may recognize that name, it is, after all, where the famed Sherlock Holmes did his work. Whether you’ve seen the movie or read the original Doyle, you’re definitely familiar with the iconic figure of a mustachioed man in a funny hat and pipe (though not so much in the movie), figuring out impossible cases. Baker Street is familiar with its literary legacy, and the tube station there has little scenes of Holmes adorning the walls, his silhouette marking the tiles. Walking down the street you see stores advertising Sherlock Holmes merchandise, pubs named for the man, everything you can think of.
Walking down Baker Street at night is almost like traveling back in time. Ignoring the street lights and cars for a second, I could envision the buildings back in their Victorian splendor, and could almost see Holmes striding home after cracking the case, Watson trailing in his wake. My Holmes is different from Robert Downey Jr’s, even though I did love the movie. He’s bookish, giving hope to all of us who spend time indulging in literary pursuits, that one day maybe we can be the heros of our own lives, solving our own issues.
Once the clock strikes midnight, London effectively becomes Cinderella, and rushes back to comfort and silence after the bustling day. Unlike New York, where, in the words of the scholar and poet Jay-Z, the city never sleeps so better slip you an Ambien, London shuts down. Completely lights out. Baker Street is in Central London, and the tube there is a major hub. But after midnight, the tube closes and so do all the stores, restaurants, and pubs, especially on the weeknights. Trying to find a night bus to get back home, I was completely calmed by the quiet of the streets. I’d never been so alone in New York after dark, and even then I felt a strong wariness, bordering on fear, until I got to a busy street. Here, there are no busy streets after midnight, but at the same time, there isn’t that feeling that something very bad is imminent.
Completely lost, I had asked for directions from multiple men, older construction workers going into the depths of the tube after closing time. They were all very nice, and seemed to know the area very well. I wonder if they felt bad for me, a solitary girl in the middle of the night, trying to find her way in the city and clearly American by the accent. I was grateful they knew exactly what they were doing, and without their kindness I’d probably have been stuck in Baker Street, or at least significantly poorer after resorting to a cab.
The night was clear, cold but not freezing, and I was almost happy. The moon shone through the few clouds, illuminating them, giving the sky a silvery glow. I knew that it was dark back in both Wisconsin and New York by this time, even with the time difference, and was comforted by the fact that the same moon shining on my was present for them as well. Lost in my reverie, I took out my iPod and started scrolling, suddenly getting the urge to listen to music about the moon. I started “Moondance” by Michael Bublè. With no one on the street and me safely at my bus stop, I started dancing alone, a demented sort of tapping and shuffling around, enjoying the sound of my feet against the pavement mingled with the music in my ears. Then i switched to Michael Jackson’s “Scared of the Moon,” wondering at that moment how anyone could be afraid of that wonderful orb looking down from the sky, seeing all and providing comfort to the nighttime daydreamers like myself.
Eventually the spell was broken by the approach of my bus. While I was grateful to go home, and comfortable in the plush seats, I could no longer feel the same peace. Michael’s “Stranger in Moscow” started to play, and I too felt like a stranger in a strange land. I would never be one of Them, I would always be somewhat of an observer, watching and learning from this great new culture. I had come to London to learn about England, of course, but also to learn about myself, reinventing me along the way. Everyone needs an escape sometimes, and this was mine. It’s funny how people here have, in some ways, made me feel like I belong more than some of my experiences in my own country, in spite of my outsider status or maybe even because of it. The harsh light of the bus turned my thoughts unpleasant, increasingly introspective yet angry at myself.
Then my bus came to my stop, and I stepped off, back into the soothing cold and soft light, watching the shadows as they played across the brick wall lining the street. My peace returned, and I started doing that odd shuffle again, humming to myself and dancing to my own music, with my own steps.
After all, it was a wonderful night for a moondance.
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