A Bridge to Myself[1]
The Waterloo Bridge occupies a very unique position in the family hierarchy of London bridges. There are some of them, like Putney Bridge in West London, that are like one’s distant cousins living in the country side. You know they exist but you rarely see them and if you do it’s always for Christmas when your parents decide that it is about time for your family to pay them a visit, but not for more than a day or two. There is also the Millennium Bridge with its impeccable design, always swinging slightly to the rhythm of the chilly wind that has made many of your dates shiver when going for a walk along the Southbank. It’s the brain of the family. It’s your uncle who was looking for the next Big Thing, always failing and always trying for he would never stop believing in human progress. Then there is of course Tower Bridge – the patriarch of the family. But this is no regular, mortal head of family. He is not your great-grandfather who had led his family through war and dictatorship but who disappeared in front of your very eyes in less than a month. Tower Bridge is a mythical creature that, while not changing at all, becomes more beautiful and more respected with age.
And what about Waterloo Bridge? It’s the heart of the family. It is the one family member in any family who knows everyone, who can recall the family legends and who is there at every wedding and at every funeral. It is the only bridge from which you can see both the imposing roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral and that quintessentially British-looking creature called Big Ben. It is your favourite bridge in London.
Maybe that is why you can’t resist the temptation to take a detour on your way home and go for a walk on the bridge. It’s drizzling outside. It’s London and that is the way it is supposed to be!
Rather than hopping on the dreaded Central Line at Holborn you start walking down Kingsway, a street where LSE students, tourists on the way to Covent Garden and Temple Bar big wigs cross paths. They would look at each other enviously, each group begrudging what the others had – youth, time and money. Quite often you would imagine that it was only you who had access to all of those things. It was only you who could come up with the myriad of ways to apply that awesome power. Invincible. That is how Kingsway made you feel.
As you reach the end of Kingsway, which abuts Aldwych and its bizarre intersection around the BBC building, the feeling of invincibility starts to ebb away. You have to choose between turning right and heading directly towards Waterloo Bridge or turning left and making a slight tour via the LSE building and then King’s College. Choice makes us all vulnerable. Actually, you correct yourself swiftly, it is not choice itself but the post-choice syndrome that makes us vulnerable. It is the nagging self doubt that comes with the choices we make. Was it really that smart to leave the US and move back to Europe? Should I wait another year to go to business school? Perhaps she did not like the long earrings I bought for her despite her assertions to the contrary?
In some ways you feel these choices and the corresponding self-doubt are actually trivial. Yes, they are important to you and some of them would shape your life for years to come. And yet they are trivial precisely because they only pertain to you. Quite often we make choices that influence the lives of others and there the capacity for self-doubt is infinitely greater. Then the ability to absorb self-doubt, to rationalize it and to move on becomes crucial. Being able to undergo that mental process is a gift that only a few possess. Do you?
As you ponder these things you find yourself on The Strand, right at the entrance of King’s College. As usual it is surrounded by throngs of students. The sound of dozens of languages is mixed with the latest Arctic Monkeys song coming out of someone’s Ipod and the incessant buzz of texting. It was right at this very spot when you saw Her for the first time. It was during the first week of school, which was packed with Orientation events and even more absorbed with curious gazes and first impressions. A mutual friend had introduced the two of you before yet another orientation event and you were immediately intrigued by Her. It was her ‘splendid isolation’ that did the trick at first. She spoke little in class. In fact, she even looked bored most of the time as your professor would describe yet another theory of nationalism. She was never overly friendly with anyone, never flirtatious and would always be among the first to leave The Lyceum Tavern on a Monday night – your favourite watering hole after class. Yet it is precisely that sort of reserved behaviour that made you fall in love with her. To you it seemed that all her words and gestures mattered and that every smile was genuine. From then on you were only one small step away from convincing yourself that this beautiful girl, with her long and wavy brown hair and gorgeous looks, was smiling more at you than at anyone else in the program. And this is how it all began only for it to end a few months later with you expressing your feelings at that very same spot where you are standing right now. She was graceful in her response as girls always are in these situations not realizing that it is the gracefulness that makes it more difficult to accept their answer. You parted that night as friends and you continued along the same way you are taking now. Crash, boom, bang...
While that particular walk may have been suspended in the unpleasantness of the present, most of your walks along the Waterloo Bridge have been suspended in the past – a past vis-a-vis which you never felt as a bystander but rather as an active observer. To begin with you’d imagine yourself during the Blitzkrieg standing there and looking at the dome of St. Paul’s startled by the contrast between its splendour and the rubble and smoke surrounding it. Then you’d think about all of Europe, which had come to exhibit that same contrast, and about the madness of your generation. You would think that the civilized world as you had known it prior to 1914 had come to an end and that you are also to blame.
Gradually your thoughts take you to the other side to the Palace of Westminster. You would always imagine yourself being Charles Fox, despairing at the smarts and talent of your political rival William Pitt the Younger during a debate in the House of Commons. It was always during this part of your walk that you would feel the anguish of underachievement and the simultaneous urge to make amends for that as soon as possible. There is a William Pitt inside all of us you would think despite knowing very well that becoming Prime Minister in your early 20’s is no longer feasible in the modern political world.
Then your gaze shifts to the south side of the river and your sudden urge to achieve great things is cut short by the totally uninspiring sight of the National Theatre. You would think of Lawrence Olivier coming into the building on his first day of work as director of this institution in the 1960’s and thinking that the biggest challenge for him would be not how to bring the best actors and directors in the first place but how to inspire them to work in such a hideous building.
Finally, once you reach the southern end of the bridge you stop at the bus stop just next to the Royal Festival performance hall. You would always picture yourself being there with your brolly on September 7th 1978 seeing how one stranger stings another in the thigh with his umbrella. If you were a bystander you probably would not make much of it. Carrying your umbrella in a way that does not accidentally hurt others on London’s crowded streets is an art that is hard to master. Days later you would be back at the same bus stop reading an article about the murder of Bulgarian dissident Georgi Markov who was killed by an agent of the Bulgarian secret police in front of your own eyes. You would read this and feel ashamed to be Bulgarian and also angry that in Communist Bulgaria the people behind the murder would never be brought to justice. Now as you stand at the same stop those feelings have not abetted because even in democratic Bulgaria no one has been brought to justice.
As you leave the bridge your thoughts usually turn away from the grand episodes of history and focus again on the immediacy of the present. Maybe that is because you know that you are close to the tube station and that your walk is coming to an end. Or maybe it is because the past and the present, tradition and modernity, grandeur and practicality are all in equal measure part of the fabric of the city. Sometimes they come in stark contrast to one another – a contrast that is not lost on you every time you walk into The Cheshire Cheese pub on Fleet Street (anno 1538) wielding your Blackberry. Sometimes they blend seamlessly together as is the case of the super modernistic building of the British Museum that encapsulates the history of the world like no other building of its kind. And yet you feel that regardless of the way these forces interact their combination makes this city the place you’ve always wanted to call home.
You are getting carried away in your thoughts though. And just as he would on countless other occasions the beggar who always sits outside of the IMAX theatre is there to bring you back to reality with his sharp ‘Spare some change, mate’ You never do. With his huge nose piercing, tattoos on both hands and penchant for tongue-lashing strangers he has never been able to endear himself to you. But in a weird way him being there all the time has always given you a sense of comfort and calm after many eventful days at work. How can you repay him for that?
Once you walk past the IMAX you find yourself on Waterloo Road, only a couple of minutes away from Waterloo Station. Slowly your attention would start focusing on all of these countless souls that would converge at the entrance of the station, brolly next to brolly, as they make their way home. The incessant search for that damn Oyster card would start, final texts would be sent before going underground, farewells would be said to colleagues and dates. In the midst of all of that commuter chaos you are always happy to see the Empress of Waterloo Station. With her stocky figure, worn out clothes and tired look this lady, who you’ve always believed grew up in the Britain of Howard Macmillan, is no natural candidate for the role of the person with the most commanding presence in the entire station. Her voice, however, fully compensates for that. Whenever you hear her trademark ‘Evening Standard’ sales chant you are always fascinated by the power of that voice and the melodic sounds of her undeniably Cockney accent.
As you start descending the stairs towards the platform (the escalator does not work again) and with her voice still ringing in your ears your thoughts turn to the next day at work.
The next Jubilee line train is arriving in three minutes.
