How 10 Hours with a Stranger in London Changed My Perspective

Chicago, Winter 2015

I am nestled into the cushions of my Craigslist couch like a cat basking in the sun. Except there is no sun. This is Chicago in the dead of winter and the sky is under a veil of gray clouds. The trees rattle outside my rickety windows, cold air seeps into my three-flat. I am physically in Chicago, but my mind is already exploring faraway places. A year from now, I plan to study abroad in Europe. I hear Budapest is the hottest spot these days? While I’m there I will take trips to lavish destinations. I will make lifelong friends. Maybe I’ll even meet the love of my life. When I return, I’ll graduate from college. I’ll land an impressive job. I’ll get married. Check check check. I’m barely twenty, but my life is mapped out. For now, I robotically stare at my phone. Swipe left. left. left. right. It’s a match!

“Anyone notable?” asks Alden. Her limbs are sprawled across the couch, a candle flickers between us, emitting the warm scent of musk. 

“Not really. I just saw that one guy from class” I grimace. “But I just swiped right on a guy named Bart. He's from London.”

“Show me!” she reaches out her hand. After a few swipes she glances at me with a nod of approval.

“He messaged you!” she tosses the phone at me. A red bubble stares at me. I click it to expand his message.

Bart: Howdy, Michelle! Are you a local Chicagoan?

Me: Sure am! Looking for a tour guide? I’m half kidding, but I do love showing visitors my city.

Bart: Actually yes! I’m traveling through The States for the first time with my brother, and we’d love a local to show us around. We leave on Friday.

That’s in two days. My mind drifts to my week. I have a full day of classes tomorrow and then work. At first, I’m disappointed. This feeling is swiftly masked with a tremendous amount of relief. Do I really want to show two strangers around? I send a quick reply declining his invitation, assuming that's the end. What precedes is a three-hour texting spree where I learn all about the mysterious Englishman. Every time my phone dings, I race for it, exhilarated by what else he’ll reveal, like the fact he works for the parliament and lives right in Central London.

I eagerly tell him all about my plans to study abroad. We exchange contact information and he promises to show me around London when I visit. I squeal with excitement at the thought.

My mind drifts to the future. I picture us crossing the Tower Bridge, the River Thames flowing beneath our feet. I transport us to Primrose Hill, colorful homes full of charm surrounding us. I imagine us at an English pub. We share a dish piled high with fish and chips. The imaginary scent trails up my nostrils.

“Earth to Michelle,” shouts Alden, shaking me from the world I’ve built within my mind.. I often find myself living in the “what if” instead of the “what is.” I decide to neatly place my daydreams in a lockbox within my mind. A lot can change in a year. 

_________________

London, Fall 2016 

         The clock strikes 10am as I pull up to King’s Cross. It towers above me as I exit the taxi. Busy travelers scurry past me. Some lug heavy suitcases, rushing to catch the tube. Others kiss and hug loved ones. I pull my phone from my back pocket to read a text from Bart.

Be there in 5 minutes. My stomach lurches. I’m filled with nervous anticipation. I’m in a foreign country, about to meet a stranger from the internet. Is this crazy? For a second, I wonder if I should make a run for it. I’ll turn around and walk back into the busy streets of London, blending in with the crowd before he has a chance to recognize me. As though they have a mind of their own, my feet point towards the entrance and I walk myself inside. I scan the space for a second before my eyes meet his. My body is overcome with a sense of relief, when I see his toothy smile. Although I’ve never met Bart in person, he reminds me of an old friend. The anxiety dissipates. 

“Michelle!” shouts Bart.

“Bart!” He wraps me in a hug and I surrender.  Are English people usually this affectionate? We pull away and I observe him. He’s tall and lanky. He has blue eyes and brown hair that’s gelled up.  He wears a long-sleeved collared shirt, buttoned all the way up and brown pants. It’s a sunny, breezy early-October day so jackets are not required.

“Is this kind of mad, eh?” he asks, a thick accent escaping him.

“Yes! But, I’m so excited to see London through your eyes. What’s on the agenda?” 

“Let’s start with a traditional English breakfast, hit all my favorite museums, and I’ll show you my favorite pub,” he responds, excitedly. His energy spins me into a state of adrenaline.

We exit King’s Cross and head to the tube. I follow Bart’s lead as we navigate the underground. I just met this man, yet I already appreciate him spending the day with an American stranger.

 We squeeze onto the packed tube like a pair of sardines. We’re only inches apart and must shout over the hum of the moving car to hear each other. We banter despite the noise. There’s so much we both want to say and what feels like not enough time.

“My stomach is growling,” I say.

“Perfect timing, I want you to try a traditional English breakfast.”

We venture across Lambeth Bridge, admiring the views of The River Thames and Lambeth Palace in the backdrop, and emerge onto a quaint street that reminds me of a small countryside town. The houses are laid in brick, with charming front stoops and window shutters. It’s warm enough that flowers bloom in the window sills. Elderly Brits and families with young children pass us as we make our way down the sidewalk. It dawns on me that I haven’t heard a single American in thirty minutes. 

I follow Bart as we enter one of these seemingly quaint homes. Inside is an inviting dining room full of cheerful laughter. A hostess seats us next to a burning fire and hands us each a menu.

“Shout when you’re ready to order. And I’ll get you some tea,” she says, scurrying off before I have a chance to agree.

I flip through the pages before looking up at Bart.

“What do you recommend?” I ask.

“Fried eggs, sausage, bacon, tomatoes, lots of beans, I mean lots.” he replies. “Oh, and you should definitely try some blood pudding.”

I recoil at the thought of eating a sausage made of a pig’s blood, but try to hide my disgust. Our tea arrives and we sip on it as we resume our conversation from our tube ride. We talk about family. I tell Bart about my parents who were born and raised in Ukraine. He tells me about his. We talk about school and work and what it’s like to live in London and live in Chicago and we talk so much we can’t get our words out fast enough.

“I can’t believe how much we’ve hit it off, I say. “What if one of us was super weird?”

“I could still be super weird, Michelle,” he replies, chuckling.

When our meal arrives I devour every last bite – even the blood sausage, not realizing how hungry I’d been, my mind distracted by every word Bart shares. We finish our breakfast and I notice how sore my cheeks already are from smiling so wide since I’ve met him.

We spend the afternoon museum hopping. We question the meaning behind sculptures at the Tate Modern, admire traditional English paintings with ornate gold frames at The National Gallery. Next, we make our way across town and stare open-mouthed at fossils and dinosaur bones at the Natural History Museum. As we make our way through each museum, Bart tells me about his job working for the British Parliament and the pressure he’s under. Because we have only one day together, there is a fleeting sense that we can be truly open and vulnerable with one another so I share with him my fears for the future.

“I graduate in just 8 months and I’m worried about entering the real world,” I say. “Every choice I make now feels so weighted, what if I make the wrong one?” Bart is only two years older than me, but something about his presence puts my mind at ease.

“I understand how stressful it is, but things really do fall into place how they are meant to,” he says. “And besides, why worry about that right now? You’re in London with me.”

My worry instantly fades away as we walk into The British Museum’s Great Court. I am filled with awe as I look up at the impressive architecture surrounding us. At the center of the room sits a large white cylindrical structure. Above it is a glass, skylight ceiling with a mind-bending metal crisscross design. The sun beams through the glass at just the right time, reflecting a shadow across the entire room. I look over at Bart who is equally admiring the shadows dancing around him.

In that moment, I am flooded with the realization that I am truly present. It does not matter to me what I will do after I graduate. It doesn’t matter if I’ll ever see Bart again. For the rest of the day, I choose to let go and let Bart lead the way. I am flooded with gratitude to experience this spectacular place with a new friend.

After exploring the British Museum, I realize my throat is scratchy from babbling all day. I don’t know how we still have things to talk about. 

“How does a beer sound?” he asks. “My favorite pub isn’t far from here.”

“ Let’s do it.” I reply, desperate for something to quench my thirst.

We walk down the block, and for the first time all day Bart and I settle into silence. In the past, I’d try to fill it, but I decide we both need a minute and so we walk side by side in silence, the streets full of people passing us on either side. It’s after 5pm, so office workers are emerging after a long day. The sun is just starting to lower behind the buildings. I look down at my feet, methodically stepping on each cobblestone.

Finally, we arrive at the pub. I can hear that it’s alive with music and football on the TV. The sounds of loud belly laughs and clinking glasses overflow onto the street. A mildewy scent of stale wood and beer fill my nostrils. A burly middle-aged man behind the bar takes our order. Bart and I grab a couple of brown ales and cheers to the day we’ve had.

In an instant, I accept the fact that this might be the only time I ever see Bart. This is not the beginning of a fairytale or long-distance love story. I decide to let it be what it is. A memorable 10 hours in London with a stranger who is now a friend.

I take a sip, the bitter ale warms my throat. Bart looks at his watch. 

“Not bad, 20,000,” he says.

“20,000, what?” I ask, confused.

“20,000 steps,” he says. “We walked 20,000 steps in London Town.”

I chuckle and raise my glass.

“Cheers to that, Bart,” I say.

Cheers to that, Michelle.” We both take a big swig.