A Broad

Sunday in London and I took to the streets the way I often do when Sunday evening emerges, and that wandering bug skitters freely from brain to heart to feet, creating the desire for movement that simply will not dissipate. Despite the vast difference in size between London and the sleepy, heat-enveloped towns like Tallahassee and Baton Rouge, which were the maps I primarily traversed, there existed an underlying similarity. And that similarity nagged at me. Five days into London and I hadn't found what I so craved: difference. I wanted London to exist as something marvelous and unparalleled; I wanted an experience unlike something I would find in New York, where I currently resided. Oh, I wanted the travel cliche for my first real trip abroad. So, I walked along the Thames, across Tower Bridge, through Potters Field Park, and still could only compare what I encountered to the familiar places of my life. Perhaps in an age of globalization, difference is the stuff of imagination. Perhaps humanity's underlying commonalities overshadow the cultural distinctions that make a place unique. My quirky disregard for navigation led me down a street I'd twice strolled, so I took a side street and discovered an evening market. Here, too, was no vast difference from the street fairs in New York or the festivals in Louisiana. Still, the soft, yellow stringed lights created an otherworldly ambiance, as if I'd stumbled upon some magical underground found only in classic tales. Narnia exemplified. Stalls boasted sweets, drinks, and other original delicacies only the impromptu provide. With a full-bodied red wine in hand, I meandered over to the side fete overtaking the entire market. 1940's French accordion sounded from a small corner humbly marked off for dancing. The vibrant melody held wistful flashes weighted with history, but a history that set people moving together in rhythmic harmony. In the market's closing hour, more onlookers joined in, borne upon the wave of enchanted energy imbuing the dancers. In that moment, I imagined life lived generally: Enjoying a Sunday evening before the work week began again. Out in the dusky air with friends and family, partaking in food and drink, dancing under the sweet lights that created this makeshift community of rhythm, movement, and laughter. This evening truthfully not very different from any other; its similarity common to Sundays elsewhere and everywhere. For it was life being lived, one unique memory at a time.