"We are such stuff as dreams are made on" -- The Tempest // The Newb of The Tube

We’ve been living in London for exactly a month now, and still I am not yet past the phase of pinching myself to see if this spectacular life is some construct of my too-vivid imagination. If it is, dreaming has never been better. And, in many ways, London is a surreal fantasyland. It’s the chimera of the Underground that has transfixed me particularly of late.

This can't possibly be real life.

People are hurtled through subterranean passages, careening on wild metal carriages that snake beneath famous streets and buildings above, all in the name of getting from A to B. It seems I spend most of my time on the Tube (in reality the ratio is 1/12 of my average day, right between walking up and down stairs and monopolising the toaster). It is fascinating to be a daily part of something so microcosmic as the London Underground.

Business people, travelers, immigrants, party girls (though I don’t enthusiastically suggest taking the train dressed for a neon rave if you’re at all phased by blatant stares), and thieves (no, seriously, a group of men the other day boarded at Tottenham Court Road lugging a flat-screen telly, its wires sticking out in a most hurried, suspicious manner) are ferried every minute to every inch of London.

Me and Casey after attending the neon rave of fresher's week.

However, these are the more colourful, rare instances on the Tube. Otherwise, what shocks me most about the Underground is how utterly silent it is. A single car, about 53 feet in length can be, and often is, stuffed to full capacity (which, legally, is 152 people) and still, I am able to discern which song a passenger several feet away from me is listening to on his iPod. Walking down a crowded corridor, too, I am met, not with the expected chaotic cacophony of hundreds of bustling travellers, but with the solitary ricochet of a chorus of the cool, clicking heels that carry their stone-faced wearers to each platform. There is something to be said about the British “stiff upper lip.”

Yesterday, I sat my first lecture at City University. It is an introduction to sociology. The professor is a bit militant, but our first lesson was thought provoking. He mentioned the Tube, and also remarked upon its detached passengers, from a sociologic perspective. The phenomenon is known as “civic indifference” and stems from a place of customary courtesy. According to Dr. Webster, it’s a well-known fact that if you talk on the Tube you are with a friend or from out of town. And, while it is true that I normally fall into both categories, if your face is six inches from mine and we are grasping the same pole, it would be nice if we acknowledged one another’s existence.

 Therefore, I will make it a goal to strike up a conversation with a random, safe-looking stranger on a Tube journey in the near future. Maybe I’ll get that stiff upper lip to crack a smile.

Voldemort.

Creeping on Ralph Fiennes after seeing him star in The Tempest for my Shakespeare course.