On geographic reconciliation…

One of my most recurring analogies is the similarity of city-human relationships to human-human relationships. In the past I've spoken of my relationship with London as akin to the kind of rapport you have with a colleague you don't particularly like but who, after months of working together (and possibly threatening to quit a few times), you grudgingly come to respect. If the past few months in Prague have prompted me to realize what the Big Smoke has to offer, I have endeavored to remain aloof and unemotional in my appraisal; romanticizing ex-cities cities is a bit like staying hung up on ex-lovers: it makes it quite difficult to a) move on or b) appreciate the here, now, today-ness of life.

That being said, on my current (and it's still on-going, so this subject to change) trip to London, the city has acted like a previously disloyal, but now apologetic lover bent on winning me back. Gone is the professional courtesy, the grudging acknowledgement that I exist. By London standards, the past few days have been a positive lovefest of pleasures, overt, covert and overheard. Here, at the risk of being uncritical and (dare I say it?) positive, are some highlights of abnormal niceness.

• It's evening and I land at Luton, terrified of going through passport control sans UK visa and UK partner. Also have vision of epic, snaking queues, against the likelihood of which I've stocked up on Wizz Air Bake Rolls. In the end, no need for angst – a lovely man resembling Ghandi stamps my passport with nary a suspicious look and I am through in five minutes. My bag is the first one I see as I enter reclaim and I am out of the airport in twenty minutes, surely a Luton world record.
  
• On the train/underground, en route to my friend's house, three separate men volunteer to lift/carry my bag.
  
• In St. Pancras, I stop to buy a bottle of wine at M&S and I am carded by the cashier who also offers to throw away the empty Diet Coke bottle I am carrying and tells me to have a nice day.
  
• Standing on the platform waiting for the Jubilee Line, I observe an elderly couple (think early-mid eighties) standing on the platform, loving discussing the fact that they "should like to see that exhibition" (Diaghilev & The Ballet Russes at the V&A). Have lovely, dreamy moment thinking how nice it is to retire in a city, where one can continue to do such things and get about by public transport rather than being stranded, unable to drive, in the middle of suburban hell. Briefly imagine myself and Mr P as a spry octogenarians, gallery hopping in 2065.
  
• Getting lost between Swiss Cottage and my friend's house, someone asks me if I'm lost and endeavors to point me the right way, again without my asking for help.
  
• A rather posh old lady at the Starbucks on Haverstock Hill admires my art deco ring. I notice it is shining abnormally brightly despite my lackadaisical attitude towards cleaning it, which I chose to interpret as a positive omen.
  
• It's sunny, sit-outside-in-a-sleeveless-dress warm, and it's October.
  
• I get a £2 coin that I've not seen before - the one with Darwin in profile facing a chimp - and think that if such a coin were minted in the States, entire Congressional districts would probably refuse to spend it. It seems an emblem of rationality.

Add to this a series of lovely and much needed coffees, brunches, dinners and lunches with friends and you have a very pleasant 96 hours. Of course there has been some profound oddness as well – such as the strange man on the tube Saturday morning who asked if my tights (grey lacey fishnets) were "spider webs" and informed that I was "really making quite a fashion statement, you know?" (fishnets, boots and a uniqlo skirt - daring!) before asking probing questions about my nationality. My favorite brunch spot has closed, to be replaced by some blasphemous attempt at an "Italian American Diner." (Aren't all vaguely ethnic diners in the US Greek?) Then there was a humiliating and upsetting scene on the Baker Street tube, which consisted of a (presumably drunk) man berating his (also drunk) girlfriend in front of the entire station, in one of the most horrifying displays of public misogyny I have ever encountered. However there's also been the palpable sense of delight I've felt at blending back into London's diversity after largely mono-ethnic Prague, where seeing two little girls of different ethnicities, in matching school uniforms, sitting on the bus, sharing a set of headphones and listening to one iPod makes me feel that there are some very important things which this city, despite its inhuman scale and occasional coldness, has gotten very, very right.