"Took my feet to Oxford Street..." and thereafter ran.

I should have worn more deodorant today. Not just because of the relatively hot
weather (described as “cracking” by our enthralling sociology professor at
City), or even because of the thousand or so people cramming themselves into
Primark on Oxford Street, or in an act of camaraderie with the neighborhood
football team Malina and Casey and I stopped to watch during lunch – but
because the cold sweat of fear and panic.

Mom and Dad, the following disclaimer is mainly for you.

Now, please don’t anyone get
excited, because I am perfectly fine, in fact, probably all the wiser for
having experienced my earlier ordeal. I also fully own my specious decisions
and visions of infallibility, and have now vowed never to make similar mistakes
again. I think everyone should and will be faced with moments of equivalent
distress, and will learn a crucial lesson in the great test of growing up when
they challenge themselves to conquer them. The above hype aside, here is the
reason behind the perspiration:

Douglas Adams once wrote, in So Long and Thanks for all the Fish, that, “Hyde Park is stunning. Everything about it is stunning except for the rubbish on Monday mornings. Even the ducks are stunning. Anyone who can go through Hyde Park on a summer's evening and not feel moved by it is probably going through in an ambulance with the sheet pulled over their face. It is a park in which people do more extraordinary things than they do elsewhere.“ It was with this idyll  trouncing around in my Pollyanna mind that I set off down Bayswater Road, my “don’t-screw-with-me” face firmly in place, from the two-story, ultra-cheap fashion bin that isPrimark on Oxford Street, right by Marble Arch (a truly remarkable place,  so chaotic that, besides the unparalleled deals, probably resembles the outer
circles of Hell. And I quite like to shop). Sans map and mobile (really, I am an
absolute fool) I walked for a time within other’s groups as to not stand out as
alone. However when I crossed the street to walk alongside the Park’s wall,
walkers were less concentrated. Armed with only the mental picture of the map
of Kensington that has hung by my bed for the last two years and excessive
viewing of London on Google Earth, I continued along, knowing Bayswater would
eventually connect to home. But, Bayswater is a long street. And just as I was
considering veering off to make that famed stroll through the park, I noticed a
man, late 20’s, walking opposite me. I kept calm, looked bored, and clunked my
Docs steadily in front of each other. He halted 7 feet away from me and said,
“Hey you’re pretty cute, you know?” Oh God. Just keep walking. But I couldn’t,
there was a domed bus stop in my path that would force me to his side of the
pavement. I stopped short. “Umm, no thank you.” “Do you want to go do something with me?” “Really,” I played it jaded and disdainful. “You’re gonna do this? Come on…” He advanced, and,
abandoning all pretense, I hopped up and down, flailed wildly to hail a cab.
There wasn’t one in sight, I realized afterwards, but this public display was
enough to make him scurry off. I pounded down the pavement, and took the next left into Hyde Park. Looking for a way into familiar Kensington Gardens, I
tried a path that eventually led me to the Peter Pan Statue. I stayed there and
asked directions of two Scottish students on holiday to no avail and we snapped
each other’s pictures next to the J.M. Barry memorial, before I turned around
to consult the map where I came in again. I tried catching up to three teens
maybe a year or two younger than I, to ask them directions, but it was they, a
boy and two girls, who sped up and looked scared as if I was the one accosting people creepily in the evening. I finally called after them, defeated, and said, “I’m not trying to get you or anything,I just want directions." They sauntered over and turned out to be as much help as the Scots, and far les friendly. I took an educated guess on which path led to Round Pond in Kensington Gardens and, still spooked, caught up with an older Jamaican lady, walking alone. Joyce, as she introduced herself as, was as trustworthy and informative as I was hoping. I walked with her to Round Pond, offering my profuse thanks, and spied Jeremy Kramer. I ran toward him, arms outstretched with relief and gave him a huge hug. He had come to the park by himself to take some photos and happened to be sitting on the Pond bench directly in front of my path. I was so thankful to see a familiar face and someone who had a key to
Palace Court.


Serendipity, in the end, turned out to be on my side.
But this has taught me I can NOOO longer rely on something so fickle. London is
“monstrous” and monsters hide among its members. And although I fancy myself superior to your average sidewalk lurker, I’ll never take on the city stupid
and singlehanded again. At least not without more deodorant. Promise, Mom and Dad!