Pretty Little Flowers

I came to London on a two-week holiday. I had nothing going on back home, in the rural confines of Madeira Island, so when the opportunity arose to stay and work as an au pair, I sent out for the rest of my things. An adventure is, in one of its several definitions, “an unusual, exciting or daring experience.” Granted, little about this outcome was unusual, though I did find it daring and exciting. We’ve all heard the stories of provincial young men who head off to the city in search of glory or a way out of their dull lives. I thought, for a moment, I could be one of them. I imagined myself merging into the fast-paced madness of faceless armies on the go, planning my routine around Saturday-morning outings to Camden’s markets, evenings at the West End’s theaters and late nights in its pubs drinking way-too-much, as a proper Londoner should. Over 6 months later, my bohemian delusions have faded into suburbia’s white noise, and rare are the moments spared to explore.
I’ve always wondered what drives people into living in the suburbs. Aside from more affordable rent, I thought some were just passing by while most chose it to die. And what a strangely beguiling place to die, amidst the endless rows of brick houses, each with its pristine miniature garden, faultlessly combed grass and pretty little flowers. It’s terrifying. Nothing happens in the suburbs, ever. Every morning, when walking the children to school, following the herds of stay-at-home mothers who wear too much make-up (and who maybe take too many painkillers and quietly drink too much wine) I would indeed wonder; how did I end up here? Living in London’s suburbs is surely an adventure, but in the sense that you risk losing your mind.
At the heart of London, however, losing your mind is not a risk, rather a certainty. The hyperrealist city of my dreams lays a mere 40 minute tube ride away, and there the hasty coldness of working class meets the awe of tourists from all over. Never have I sensed so much solitude amid so many people. A few weeks back, while I waited for the bus home from Oxford Street, I saw a man with a suitcase, sitting on the sidewalk and crying. I bet he too wondered; “how did I end up here?” Big cities can be so unforgiving but, on that night, walking past the same brick houses, with their lovely gardens and pretty little flowers, I felt safe. I don’t think that crying man felt safe, but I believe he was living an adventure. I wish I had asked him.