Shahid Mahdi Narrative Essay 7 Mr.

Potchatek 10/6/13 Nighthawks

There comes a time, usually during a holiday of some sort, in which a most fierce cycle consumes me. Bereft of any school work or scholastic responsibilities, Im free to spend the timeless, ethereal nights sitting at my desk on Marsham Street. These patches of nocturnal activity, of unreasonable restlessness, only drifted into my cognisance recently. I approach this ritualistic pastime with some consistency and formality. I shut both the doors behind me and enter my sacrosanct zone of being what I like to call a nighthawk. But up until recently there had never been a prerogative, or journey, or - nothing at stake, so to speak. I reside in a dormant part of one of the most dynamic and hubristic cities of the planet. During the day, the goings on of SW1P diffuse a buzzing atmosphere, but as dusk falls and the very last of the uniform, sleep deprived Home Office employees catches the 88 northbound to Camden Town or thereabouts, I find that, If I am to remain at home and divagate away from the festivities from friends that cushion themselves in Kensington, St. Johns Wood, etc., a strange yet expectant rapport with the city emerges. The etymology of Londons avenues is perhaps more fascinating a topic than to study the very same derivations of street names in other cities. No other metropolitan area boasts such a cornucopia of oddball yet rich labels for its arteries and channels. Many are rooted in history, endemic to the industry in the surrounding area, are chosen with thanks to prominent families and statesmen or women, or are simply named based off the monuments that surround it. Then, of course, there are the zany crop of streets that no researchers have managed to publicly justify. One such place is named Bulinga Street, and forms a sly, curtailed road behind the Tate Britain, just by where I live. As one can imagine, it is probably in no parents right mind to let their son or daughter, however keen or mature he or she may be, to perfunctorily exit the house in the agonising hours of the morning for an enriching stroll. Yet I decided to just that, not for any particular reason1 . I had been so elated at the prospect of returning to my dearest Londonium2 from San Francisco that a uxorious, binding magnetism of the grey, moderately littered streets was as charged as ever. From that night during the summer of 2011 onwards, I made an oath to myself that the journeys of my life would manifest themselves and come to be as a result of three major outlooks I intended on projecting life with:

1. To comprehend how to appreciate all that is beautiful, regardless of value or avoirdupois; 2. To enable myself to pursue interests, whatever they may be. 3. To have swaying of the mind to be permissible, but not to be swayed.

These, as one can imagine, are much like Bulinga Streets curiously sui generis, nonrationalised existence. There is no strict derivation, they simply occurred. To be a nocturnal soul doesnt biologically make much sense. Given the fact that most organisms with the possible exclusion of bacteria have a circadian rhythm, the lack of dormancy I faced through those summer nights couldve been frowned upon. I wasnt an insomniac 3 in the slightest sense, but there was something to be said about the restlessness of the night. Most of the Critical Reading Section passages on the SAT4 were on generic historical trends, geological fancies, or plain, mundane political topics saturated with info but starved of wit or intellect. One passage, however, analyzed the proliferation of night activity, and how electricity costs, patterns of activity, and internet access affected the sublimation of the sun-sucking human being into a viable nighthawk. Sure enough, the passage was situated within a test that measured critical thinking and logistical aptitude of Joe Smoe, and certain conclusions were meant to be drawn. Amidst attempting to focus on the questions at hand, I felt that the passage resonated strongly with me - not based on what I had done, more with a potential penchant for an unknown fascination Id have in the future. In this sentiment it was confoundedly ironic situation: If one is not able to understand the passages points, he or she was doomed to answering the next few questions incorrectly. If one does understand the passages points, then he or she answers the questions correctly. However, as in my case, I found that if one were to resonate or understand the passage excessively well, the problems would indubitably arise. He or she would be so trapped that the amour between the reader and the passage would fog up the students concentration. Roaming the grand city of London by night, equipped with an iPod, a sense of wary caution for ones surroundings in a big, bad city, an Oyster Card5 , some money, and of course a healthily charged phone, truly did nurture the soul. The highly impressive, complex-yet-specific-and-organised-with-the-same-bellicosity-andrigidity-as-a-British-Imperialist- fervor public transport transformed my journeys on the Tube, on the bus, on the railway, or by foot into revelatory quests, exhuming the innards of an all too quiet megapolis. As a spritely eighteen year old, it dawned upon me recently that, despite my vagabondish nature, Ive only ever had the pleasure of being within a small quadrant of Londons. I have, however, witnessed the glitz and glam of the Mayfair glitterati as their cigar smoke drifts past streetlights on Jermyn Street and their caviar flatulations are whisked by the wind travelling up South Audley Street up onto the hawk-bearing

Grosvenor Square. Ive been subject to the promiscuous lurers in the Devils Alleyway of the core of Soho. Ive tasted the flavors of the Stars and Stripes and comprehended a smrgasbord of American stereotypes within the upstate-New Yorkesque quasi-suburban sprawl that is St. Johns Wood, and, while Ive been there, been fortunate enough to learn everything about the social dimension of the immaculate institution known as high school. Ive strolled the affluent, cushioned bleached-white pristine houses that adorn the blue blooded, Sunday Telegraph subscribing folk of Kensington. Ive conscripted myself to the Royal Blue armada of Chelsea fans who make their Hajj-like congregation to the sacrosanct Stamford Bridge every Saturday or Sunday. Likewise, Ive sat in Duke of York Square, fresh with ire and disappointment having been none too impressed or taken with the much too zany artworks on at the Saatchi Gallery, my least favorite of Central Londons museums. I braved the stench of buttery residue of mouldy popcorn as friends and I saw movies at Whiteleys Department Store on Queensway6. Ive admired and questioned the lack of boats on the River Thames as I head home from my night wanders on the Embankment; Im always in awe of the Old Scotland Yard building, which, in my opinion, always seemed to resemble one of the Seven Sisters skyscrapers, monoliths of erstwhile communism, and The Savoy Hotel, which pompously displays two Rolls Royce Phantom models with numberplates S4VOY7.Ive made the must-see journey over to Shoreditch, and, with a uniquely Indian obligation, sampled the most coarsely beautiful of salted beef and mustard bagels on Brick Lane. Ive meandered about through the mazy, archaic streets which compose the City of London, and thats city with a capital C. Ive savored the lights of Hays Galleria, a much overlooked London hotspot, and stood at the base of the nearby Shard on the south side of London Bridge, only to come to the foolish conclusion that I wouldnt be able to really see any of it from the bottom. From the Millenium Bridge near the Tate Modern Ive witnessed the complete and utter transformation of Londons skyline, mostly the aftermath of a gang of cranes who hung out to the flanks of St. Pauls Cathedral. Ive stood in the freezing cold at Victoria Station, the busiest rail and tube terminus in the whole of London, to catch the 507 bus, with the extinguishing knowledge that even after I get off at the necessary stop Ill still have a 3 minute trudge ahead of me back to my base8. I spent the last few seconds of 2012 in possibly the sketchiest of environments - an abandoned Vauxhall car warehouse that had been hired by illicit rave organisers known as Shindigin an area named Kew Bridge. Ive literally ate a mush of kebabs, onion dressing, and salad in an alleyway adjacent to a bar in Hammersmith, just opposite the aforementioned districts Tube station. Ive sat in a bench in Primrose Hill in the early hours of the morning and spotted the odd silhouette-hidden fox with a girl, only to be rejected by that girl. Ive watched my friends and former girlfriends drink a perilous amount at various houses and venues, including the Regents Canal. Ive taken the tube from Heathrow Terminal 5 following my maiden solo flight voyage from Istanbul around thirteen stops, if I remember correctly. Ive drifted in and out of consciousness,

not due to drink might I add, but due to a sleepy haze, as I ride the number 9 bus back from Kensington High Street over to Trafalgar Square9. Ive walked in and out of the most glorious museums - the V&A, Natural History, Science, Imperial War, British, Tates Modern & Britain, and, of course, my personal favorite, the National Gallery dozens of times, and have been fortunate enough to dine in the finest institutions, whether the quality lies within its gourmet offerings or the simple cozy isolation that is ironically easy to detect in the most sprawling of cities. Ive trumped up and down through Oxford Street, and seen the glimmering Times Squaresque equivalent of Londons, Piccadilly Circus. Ive been astonished by the queues outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street, and have traversed the avenue many a time en route to my house from the shoddy house parties that Ive often regrettably enjoyed myself at. Ive seen the blazing sun glisten off my friends dark glasses as we discuss the meaning of life and why person X made decision Y in the bountiful parks that cast Londons topography into a dizzying havoc. Be it the aforementioned Primrose Hill, the most regal St. James and Green Parks, the outlandish savannah of Richmond Park, Londons largest, or the intimate square parks that are oases in urban deserts, the presence of greenery has nourished many a soul. Ive exhausted Oyster Cards, lost phones (and thus confusingly oscillated between BlackBerries and iPhones like a darn double agent that I am), and, based on the above paragraph, may have teetered towards exhausting my readers attention. Yet the kindred spirit of London that I, an Indian of Iranian, Mediterranean and Bengali descent, who was born in Sharjah, U.A.E.10, proceeded to live in the ber child-friendly artificial agglomeration known universally as Dubai, moved to the diplomatic nucleus of Geneva, Switzerland, and currently holds British citizenship, have become most affectionate with convinces me that the magic of the British capital - and particularly a nocturnal energy - stirs restlessly. Im not sure how to affirm genetic gifts (or curses) that have been unintentionally bestowed upon me. One thing I am grateful for is my fathers sense of direction. My father is an aficionado of anything to do with motion that is technical. From a young age onwards, he was all over anything to do with automobiles or aviation. Its this same sense of navigation that aided me in my travels across London. My parents let me leave the house on my own around the age of thirteen. At first, my duties in the daunting outside world were limited to petty chores and grocery shopping. We owned a car, but I was gleeful to roam the city by foot, and as one thing led to another in the amorous exchange between London and I, I found myself waking up earlier and earlier to simply wander. The no. 88 bus could be perceived as my carriage to the worlds delights. Spanning a route that begins at Clapham Junction and terminates in Camden Town up north, it nonchalantly blazes past many of the City of Westminsters gems11. I credit the splendor of the sleepy 88 with familiarising me with starting to build the edifice that is known as the pedestrians Knowledge12.

I dont want to say that one has to be mentally ill to really love a city at night, and these are not the ramblings of an anthropophobia or an agoraphobe. But there does have to be some strange whirring spirit within you, a spirit that laments for the past and tries to access the ghosts of Londons historic past. Ive lived in London for eight years now, and, by George, the city has changed. And I dont mean changed as in altered in terms of demographics, although that is true. Regardless of what far-right political entities hark on about, there is and always will be an authentically Imperial twist to Londons formality; a touch that, in my opinion, lets it nip New York to the title of the most glorious city in the world. The city has changed in the sense that the quiet dormancy only ever found at night no longer lingers in the day. The idea that grand glory is coming to London is rife in the air, the city is too high from inhaling the toxins of the nonstop, electronic, digital age. When my parents first moved to London in the early 90s (before shipping out to Dubai), a grainy late-20th century feel to London was predominant. Having not been alive during the time, theres not much I can say thats testament to the point Im making. There is a part of London only accessible at night when the spectre of cities past, a spectre that I miss even though I wasnt alive when it was, rises. Im looking for the haunted spirit of London that no longer exists yet lingers on Park Lane and skulks across the fields of Regents Park at night, when all public access is cut off. I came across a passage from Jeremiah Moss in the New York Times about Edward Hoppers timeless magnum opus, Nighthawks. Now housed in Chicago, the painting is world famous for capturing the zeitgeist of the time effortlessly. A couple, as well as another man with his back to the viewer, sits at an oblong, brown counter, attended by a bald barman with a teeny little white hat on. No other figures are detected on the street. Moss took it upon himself to find the same bar wherein the paintings subjects were seated, but alas, he couldnt. The megapolis of New York had transformed too quickly and silently, signifying that it was much too late for Moss, or any other fan of Nighthawks, to track down the 1942 masterwork. Moss managed to masterfully summarise his feelings following the futility in a couple of sentences:
It seems the longer you live in New York, the more you love a city that has vanished. For those of us well versed in the art of loving what is lost, its an easy leap to missing something that was never really there13.

To translate this poetic sense of nostalgia to London may be too daunting a chore for a plebeian writer like myself. But for me to miss something that was, as Moss utters, never really there is quite the spectacle. Luckily for me, however, there were indeed portholes and exposs into the lost London that I was clambering at. Between

the time I discovered this plucky curiosity and the time I discovered the paralyzing magic of Edgware Road, much time had passed. The novelty of exploring London was tacitly novel, be it during the day or night. Up until now, I had explored the two terminuses of Edgware Road, if you will - the top section, which seamlessly intersects with Maida Vale, and the bottom, which diverges into roads leading West to Notting Hill and, beyond that, Shepherds Bush (home of the insurmountable Westfield mall). My earliest memory of Edgware Road was probably zooming by it in a car. One of my familys favorite eateries is Colbeh, an Iranian joint that furtively nestles in a corner of Connaught Square. This happens to be the same square which ex-Prime Minister Tony Blair , inhabits. Two police officers, equipped with heavy duty rifles, snarlingly patrol the grounds. Despite the hazy shisha that hurtles out of Edgware folk every night, I would be hesitant to name it as a Little Cairo or Little Damascus, so on and so forth. The stretch seems much too cosmopolitan to label under one of these ethnic sobriquets. Unlike Oxford Street, which Ive found has some symmetry to it14 , E.R. seems to be a completely asymmetrical, unplanned series of buildings and shops with no apparent concatenation besides their nationality and or purpose. The southern end of the road is popular with night time revellers, as hordes of men and women alike catch up on the days trivialities in the said shisha bars and late night eateries. The Maroush- group owned restaurants, which include the Beirut Express, Ranoush, Ranoush Juice, and the Maroush Bakehouse, constitute a chunk of Londons Lebanese fare per borough, but they only make up a small fragment of E.R.s homebrew Middle Eastern fastcasual and laidback dining. Odd, considering at first glance the Maroush chain seems to be the Standard Oil of Lebanese restaurants. Besides maybe Brick Lane, which was rapidly populated by South Asians and Afro-Caribbean immigrants in the 50s onwards, Edgware Road is the closest thing to a liminal avenue I know. It is neither too secular nor overly pious. No mosque minarets call out for prayers, as the nearest major mosque (or Islamic Center, as it is now often been labelled) borders the west flank of Regents Park. It is not simply an intersection running through London, connecting the Southern badlands with St. Johns Wood, Maida Vale, and Kilburn, but it also a curious (and rather harmonious) intersection of socioeconomic circumstance. Towards Park Lane, an abundance of supercars15 are parked by their exhausted owners, each and every one of them heading to Edgware Road for their shwarmas and kibbeh to see them through the night. Real estate prices soar, and the squeaky clean Grade A standard London townhouse is visible as the streets form a centrifugal aura of happiness with Hyde Park. On the complete opposite side, conspicuous high-rise council estates tower in both height and ideology. The question, inexorably intertwined with my appetite for London, pulled at my psyche - is E.R. a place of circumstance or logic? What exactly is it like for an Iraqi newsagent owner to watch a Lamborghini Aventador, owned by a twentysomething whos barely ever worked for a penny and has had everything delivered to him on a

silver platter, shamelessly speed by? And as a self-professed scholar of the night, what truths could E.R. tumble unto me in the early hours of the morning? The first mention of Edgware Road does not pertain to its purpose as a walkway, but rather as a site. The innovative, disciplined Ancient Romans carved a track out of the forestry that remained to create a humongous path known as Watling Road16. This, of course, as historians infer, mustve been for trade purposes. A patch of grass on the southern base, so to speak, of Edgware Road, and acts as the neutral DMZ between Bayswater Road, E.R. itself, and the curvature of Marble Arch. A number of contemporary artists sculptures and memorials have been displayed there, and as I write a giant, stone inverted head of a horse is comfortably placed there. That very same patch of grass used to hold the infamous Tyburn tree, one of Londons first central - and popular- criminal gallows. Edgware Roads next major metropolitan claim to fame was its immediate kinship with one of Londons immaculate, timeless gems - the London Underground. As part of the Metropolitan line that began operating in 1863, E.R.s name was - quite literally - put on a map. Owing much thanks to the global dominion of the British Empire, London was the place to be. Steady waves of immigrants from further afield begun to pour in as the 20th century matured, including Greeks, South Asians, nationalities of African origin, and more. It wasnt until the 1970s that the Arab contingent - which unequivocally dominates the property and lifeblood of E.R. - shifted in. With all these ethnicities, religions, creeds, intentions and descendants crammed onto one street, Id probably point the nave London tourist towards Westminster Councils 2006 Action Plan report for Edgware Road, which says the following:

Add to this, is a history that includes various painters, bohemians and writers living in and around the locality, and we can see how Edgware Road can be regarded as a microcosm of wider Lon don itself.

When excogitating this story I had become jumpy and excited with the prospect of interviewing Edgware Road folk from different ethnicities and socioeconomic backgrounds to contribute to the lifeblood. But to do that would be to disobey the solitary wonder that the sacred road presents us with. The savage, semi-lethal winter of 2012 raged and brazenly puffed its chest, and I was looking to return home from school. The perplexing contrast in appearance between north and south of E.R. had always confounded me, so from time to time I would make a conscious effort to head south via E.R. With thanks to the various extracurriculars strapped onto my chest, I often (to my utter delight) found myself swimming downstream quite late. I would get off any bus heading in this direction at a stop in close proximity to the Maida Vale/Paddington Recreation Centre, where the valiant

pal William Smithies and I would often test ourselves on the clay track, much to the amusement of closeby, extremely chiselled university lads. From there onwards, I would simply walk17. Unlike American cities (or Geneva, for that matter), communication between strangers is rare and often startling in London. Sometimes Id make eye contact with Arab girls, all kitted out in their Chanel handbags, Hermes accessories, and Louis Vuitton prints on their burkas. The occasional hostile stare from a macho, meaty-armed Syrian/Moroccan is something I try to reciprocate in a mano-a-mano sort of way, though I dont think I succeeded in the slightest. I manage to strafe clear of the creepers steely eyes that often scan pockets as well as facial expressions and continue to make my way down. Every outdoor caf was fogged up not simply by aromatic smoke but also by the knell of conversations ending and doors opening and slamming shut, all complemented by that all too elusive, prized soundbite of kitchen colleagues routinely yelling at each other for more supplies. Bus stop buttons clicked, shopping bags sunk onto the floor, and that very bizarre, unidentifiable beeping sound would hubristically screech at street crossings. This quiet of Edgware Road at night was indeed a rarity. I was most delighted when I realised it was attainable; when I realised that, yes, it did exist. I imagine the Chinese farmer who found that he could no longer dig underwent a similar experience. After a perfunctory day at work, the farmer dug and dug, only to stumble upon one of the emblems of the Qin Dynasty of China, if not the world - the Terracotta Army. The mission to squeeze out the essence of a city, however, is to not only do so alone, but also do so with friends. In order to really hunt down this nocturnal sense of London, I would often take unwritten notes and quotes from my friends if we were on E.R. or closeby. Of course, it being summer, many of my acolytes and troopers were out of town. Im no Joe Gould, as I dont believe every single utterance of an exchange must be recorded in order for the soul of a city to be exhumed, but a few conversations - apparently pointless and sudden ones at that - tend to, like a stench, linger for a while before passing. My aforementioned friend, William Smithies, and I share a powerful commonality that was responsible for forming our friendship forming in the first place. Weve always loved similar music, which might range from a light dosage of classic rap18 to savvy, melodious rhythmic techno instrumentals. Whilst strolling across the bottom half of Edgware Road, engrossed in discussion about how tragic the music giant HMVs bankruptcy was, we bumped into an odd fellow named Grand Hip Hop MC Yeshuah. This wasnt uncommon - across both ends of Oxford Street, many amateur rappers sold their mixtapes illicitly on the streets. Of late their sales prowess had been curtailed by the police, as they were vending original produce in a very, well, sketchy manner.

Excuse me gentlemen, could I interest you in the Grand Hip Hop MC Yeshuahs fourth edition mixtape? Being the music aficionados that we were, we didnt hesitate. Um...sure, how much is it? And what exactly is your style- what are you going for on this album? said Will in a very serious tone, as if we were locked in record label negotiations with Yeshuah. What followed is a mish mash of words, all legible and comprehensible, but not necessarily thought through. Yeshuah was around 62, of Afro-Caribbean origin. His hair was braided, and if you were to be in his close quarters as we were youd realise that his eyes had a yellowish tint on them, perhaps ravaged from a euphoric creative drug of some sort. Although he was plying his trade on the street, he didnt look particularly decrepit or poor. Look, my prophecy is to share the gift of rap, man. Im not looking for money, but this album is not free. There are a variety of artists on this. Look me up. Im on YouTube, my songs are on YouTube. Ive made it to the internet19. How long have you been rapping for? I asked. Well this is my first album, but music has been in my life a long while. You just chase what exactly you want to do and you do it. Its simple, and...whats your name? Shaz? it works, Shaz. Will and I split our change to give Yeshuah a hand and purchase the album - I think it was around 3.50, if not a bit more. Will agreed to take it home. We shook hands with Yeshuah and left him standing outside the Odeon with the hint of a grin on his face. I parted ways with Will at Piccadilly Circus as he had to get himself onto the Tube to head back up to his lair in Queens Park. I meandered home, walking through St. Jamess Park. The park, which faces Buckingham Palace, is not lit at all. This is probably due to the fact that the Royal Parks Commission wants to keep Joe Gould type vagabonds out so they cant form settlements. As I cross the bridge which bisects the park, I can just about make out certain Canadian geese waddling about on the grass, an area that they are usually too terrified to ever paddle over to during the daytime when hordes of tourists, children, and plain old British patriots stomp over their territory. Just as I was about to turn in I received a message from Will.20

Will was referring to one song in particular. There was one track named The how batty ting fe get fling. It was the final track on the mixtape, and consisted of various intonations and interesting dips and dives. Theres one segment where Yeshua projects an angry voice. Another where he tries to generate the instrumental and rap at the same time, which unsurprisingly proved to be quite the challenge. Although, around a year and a half later, I did find him on YouTube - all one must do is search the terms mc yeshuah and, voila, there he is in all his mellifluous glory. Neither Will, nor I, nor any of the friends I informed about the antics of the Grand Hip Hop MC, ever saw Yeshuah again. One of the more heated encounters with the folk of Edgware Road took place after a match of football. During the summer, an influx of wealthy folk hailing from the Middle East and/or Russia let their kids loose with nannies and all onto the footballing fields of Hyde Park. If you look past the leagues of customised jerseys, spanking new boots and footballs from the incumbent competition, youll find waiters, chefs, cleaners and professionals indulging in the universal appeal of an afternoon football match. The format of these matches, as with speed-dating, shuffles around quickly and without any qualms. If you have a ball, and a few people approach, its London -wide etiquette to invite them to a amicable pick-up match. My fellow companion on that July day, Clement Gelly, and I were strolling back from the southern wing of Edgware Road, our breaths baited with the stench of lamb. We were looking to play a match of football, and we knew competition was a contagion in the stamped-down, chalky red grass of Hyde Park in summer mode. I had gotten to know Clement through other friends of mine, more specifically Kyle, Kareem and Julian, but hadnt learnt much about the fellow myself. Through our awkward mumbling, we appreciated the time with each other. I was looking forward to the advent of football to begin what would become a sturdy, literary friendship.

So perhaps it was highly beneficial for us to have run into Jamiel, as we, puerile as we were, were uniting to take on a greater evil. We had joined one of the pickup games with a raucous yet friendly bunch of Middle Eastern men. Each came from modest backgrounds, and embodied the nononsense sort of attitude one would only ever expect to find in a gritty Liverpool backstreet. Indeed, they played with a fair dose of aggression, but if Clement was looking to make the Junior Varsity/Varsity ASL football team, then he would have to be nudged and jostled a bit out of his Wisconsinite anti-sport protective shell. We fared rather well, and we only lost by a few goals. Clement and I had garnered nicknames like Orange, Dutch (I was wearing my Netherlands World Cup kit, they lost to Spain in the final by 1 goal to nil, it was agonizing, as Nike had charged me 50 to purchase the kit on the day of the match), and for Clement: Baldie, Greyman (he was wearing a grey T-shirt). After the game, we saluted goodbye to those whom had to skip off back to their lives, and chatted with a few of our competitors. They would be returning next Wednesday and wished for us to join them in their quest for technical football expertise. A rather plump Algerian fellow by the name of Jamiel, clad in a Juventus shirt from the early 90s, engaged us in conversation about his work as an employee at a Kuwaiti bank which had a branch further up the road. He asked about our schooling, and once we mentioned the word American, he launched into a semi-diatribe talking about the fallacy of the banking regulation system in the United States. He had a jovial accent, a Middle Eastern twist with his English words, though there would be an irregular Irish twang to compliment this exotic twist. What ensued was an out of body experience. Clement, kudos to him, was defending his countrys financial system and explaining the concept of negative incentive. If I told my employees, if you dont make twelve hamburgers today, then youre fired, thats negative incentive, said Clement. ah..sorry, I dont like it. Loans dont work. Loans should be for-bidden. Loans dont make seeeeeeeennnnnnnssse, remarked Jamiel. If I wanted to buy a...condo?...condo-flat? Yes, in America you have condo houses? A condos a type of house, yes, was my only interjection. Yeah, said Clement. So I want to buy this condo. It costs 300,000 dollars. I have 150,000 dollars. So what do I do?

...You get a loan! Clement was slowly getting more exasperated with Jamiels refusal to believe. But the money doesnnnnnnnnnnnnnt exisssst. They will give you- just- electronics nuhhhhmbers. In reality, it doesnt exist, these nuhmbers. But thats what you do when you take out a loan, you have to trust that the bank is giving you the money you need, Clement replied. In my country [Algeria] we dont have these loans. When I read on the news that America or Britian making 1.3 trillion dullllluhhhhhrrrrrrs.... I dooooont believe it! Yeah and a chunk of that is made up by the loans. Clement was adamant. But do you ever see it? Do you see it ever with your ehyyyyyes? Somewhere, somehow in the back and forth ping-pong of financial jargon that ensued, one of them reined in his horses, preparing for greater battles. Jamiel was an affable fellow, and as we made our way back to Clements house, then sandwiched in a mews near Marylebone High Street, I couldnt help but think about the idea of a foreign perspective. Jamiel was a professional living in London, of Algerian descent. But the comforts of America were much too alien, ineffective and ineffably alien for him to simply conform and praise. From 9/11 onwards, the mysterious stigma had been ignorantly placed on all Muslims, men or women. Neighbouring European countries, including France and Switzerland had experienced a number of ethnic dilemmas with their Muslim minorities, ranging from hate crimes to disavowing the erection of minarets to blend in with the citys skyline. E.R., however , retained this timelessness. Political arguments and grainy AlJazeera television feeds blared away in the corner, and although it preoccupied the minds of the inhabitants, it didnt cause spiteful uproar. The Syrians, Iraqis, Iranians, Emiratis, Jordanians, Parsis, Israelis, and other variants were all at a surreal harmony with each other regardless of the blood spilled in their homelands. What initially attracted me to E.R. as a night wanderer was its sense of anachronism. When mourning the days of London past that I wasnt even alive for, its Edgware Roads constant being that provides comfort to millions of Londoners and myself. To stroll down Edgware Road from the north side south feels like dashing in and out of a souk and a chip shop. I watched the tents fold and the shopkeepers disassemble their flea market on Church Street, a thin pulmonary stretch of E.R.s that neatly folds into Lisson Grove. Counterfeit watches and bags are placed into cream sacks and hurled into Vauxhall and Volkswagen trucks and lorries, only to make their anticipated arrival, their performance, tomorrow at the same time. London had seemed to had its way with E.R. The clunky, out of place Marylebone flyover writhed over the road like a snake leaping up to attack its prey,

and numerous construction projects attempted to erode away the relics of E.R. that had been built in the 70s onwards. In that sense, the topography of Edgware Road was built in a reverse of the traditional hierarchy. The glamorous, neon-lit, oil-filled, well maintained half was on the bottom, whilst the mom-and-pop stores, 90s TottenhamCourt-Road-esque-Electric-Avenue stores and identical newsagents were all surreptitiously piled at the top. Must I live on E.R. for it to wholly consume me with its exotically domestic gifts? When Ive sat with my friends at 4 in the morning, munching on tabouleh and shish taouk, was I merely a spectator, watching E.R.s unwavering magic cast its spell, or a participant? Through its resilience between its time as a site for executions up to its exciting, seductive allure as a place of a bespoke Middle Eastern charm, E.R. was at least, in my eighteen year old mind - the most robustly cultural of walkways. I had been walking past the enormous Waitrose21 at around 11:30 pm on my way back from a party. Although I couldve simply hopped onto the 82 bus from St. Johns Wood Tube Station, a calling led me to stroll down the North side of Edgware, and perhaps just hop onto any bus (preferably the 2 to Victoria, where I would then irascibly track down th 507 which would drop me off at Marsham Street). I like to look to Joseph Mitchells rationale for exploring the graveyards of Staten Island as rationale for me exploring E.R.:
When things get too much for me, I put a wild-flower book and a couple of sandwiches in my pockets and go down to the South Shore of Staten Island and wander around awhile in one of the old cemeteries down there.

As I was doing so, however, an Asian young male dressed in all black sprinted past me and went around a street corner. I turned around to see if anyone was in hot pursuit, but alas, no one, albeit by automobile, foot or plane, was chasing him. My conscience jolted and I immediately switched off the iPod given to me my girlfriend on my birthday and swiped the headphones out of my ears. My primal instincts were alive, I had watched a documentary on how easily they could activate themselves in cautious circumstances. I had half a mind to shove my phone, iPod and wallet into my shoes in the instance that I would have to come face to face with this dodger rascal. He had cantered all the way down to the crossing where the nearest Beirut Express was, and, for all I know, bearing several weapons. In a leap of faith, I confidently strided towards the corner and, with my heart racing and my defensive chemicals in a flurry, looked across. He was gone, and the only sign of life in that direction was a black cab turning left towards Manchester Square. Cities are built to, essentially, make sense. Roads intertwine with each other. Lines on the tube circumnavigate the city in a logistical way, as do public buses. People dress themselves in the morning to carry out the mechanical motions that they repeat 365 days a year excluding weekends and bank holidays. But it is the unexplainable, the spontaneous, the outlandish, the uncanny, and, as I felt that night for a few seconds,

the frightening which makes cities and E.R. all the more volatile. Indeed, social mobility may be largely sluggish and unchangeable for many of the folk who work and live in and around E.R. But the dynamism; the silent nuances of children and adults alike give E.R. an unconscious gift which launches it so far ahead of any other section of the city, but also keeps it constant. While conducting research for this paper, I trolled my way through many an internet resource and came across the Edgware Road Archive, an online installation project which seeks to chronicle every iota of the sacred street by means of storing pictures, soundbites, and texts from a variety of schools and institutions. The project is managed and overseen by the Serpentine Gallery, which proudly reclines like a little club house near its eponymous river between Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park22 . I was dismayed there was not much of interest. Some of the installations had been done for the sake of being artsy, others were heartwarming yet a bit too suddenly taken photos of candid school children. I was sitting at my computer, cycling through these images with the dexterity honed by months of life on Facebook, scrolling in a zombie like trance for a while, until I scrolled across this photo:

Edgware Will change!?

It had obviously been some classroom activity of some sorts, but this young black boys inkling of a thought struck me. To say it resonated with me would be a tad cheesy, but, alack, it did.

Perhaps the mystique of London is amusingly millions of citizens all trying to claw towards its ultimate meaning. The silent, windy nights that drain out the echoes of laughter and the blink and you miss it sensation of hearing the lights turn off does bring alive a sense of a new beginning in me. Edgware Roads splendiferous charm wrestled and strangled me for the longest time, and perhaps, based on the thoughts and experiences that emanate there, it shall continue to do so. The astonishment of the black boy may not be apparent on his face, but, as I stroll through Londons ghostly parks, streets and monuments, I like to believe I see it in his punctuation. Edgware will change?! being screamed out from a state schoolboy in a socioeconomically inconsistent area, who relies on pocket money to buy snacks and drinks from the newsagent, perhaps even a football magazine, not a luxury console or an iPod that his girlfriend gave him. I often fear that E.R. itself is getting old and haggard, and, yes, the bewilderment of the black school boy is shared by myself when pondering over this realisation. Maybe Edgware will change, hopefully long after my time, and perhaps these crevices of alteration will only begin to show themselves centuries later. Standing outside the Wetherspoons on E.R., I texted the bus code to 87287 to receive the timings of the next available bus. Glaring flashing lights from a range of automobiles sped by, and light drops of rain began to make their way down. Despite it being midnight, it was not too dark - whether the luminosity was generated by artificial light, or whether God, if He existed, was sending me a message by means of preventing dusk from completely transforming into night, I remained oblivious. The number 2 to Victoria sped by, and I duly hopped onto it. There were no other passengers besides a jet-lagged travelling couple from Scandinavia and a few of my fellow nighthawks. I went up the stairs - two steps at a time- and sat in the doubleseated area just behind the stair banister, my favorite. The automated voice which reads out the stops was not working at the time, and so I wasnt able to read the NYT on my phone and actually had to pay attention to where I was. Whenever I sit on the top deck of a bus a certain anecdote crawls into mind - quite a traumatic one. I was on my way back from Knightsbridge on the no.10 bus and disembarked at Hyde Park Corner. I was looking for my wallet and realised I had left it on the 10 behind me, which, like a ship straying from port, was heading into the night. I sprinted after it, and soon, to my horror, realised it would be chugging down to Piccadilly Circus and to run onto the road would be suicide. Regardless, given my long distance stamina, I elected to sprint after it like I had never done before. Panic is greater a trigger than any gun will ever be. I glanced up and saw an Oriental man with my wallet on the top deck of the bus. He had opened the retractable windows and, in fine Good Samaritan fashion that is so rare to find, threw my wallet out onto the road. It was a miraculous occurrence. For a while I simply forgot about it, but later on, after ascending the buss stairs, my eyes

would immediately scan seats for any lost wallets so that I too could perform that miracle which was performed unto me. 1:13 AM. It was that time of night where The Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey are no longer lit up. Every strike of Big Bens is much more fearsome when amplified by the quietness of the night. The fact that I can hear every dunnnnnnnnn of the Elizabeth Tower is one of the favorite features of my home. Bono said it best when he explained that there is a silence/ that comes to a house/ when no one can sleep. Big Ben assuages us and its might has tucked me into bed every night for the past eight and a half years. The lights on the 88 (for I had switched buses) were like those of a glaring starship to the next world. The rain had faded away, though I hadnt been able to tell through the obscurity of the reflective bus windows. I got off a stop early, at Horseferry Road, and wouldve been able to hear a pin drop had I taken my iPod earphones off. There was not a single car on Horseferry, and I felt tempted to lie on the ground take a photo from what I like to call worms view. For the sake of veiled embarrassment I didnt. I walked to the pedestrian crossing leading to Marsham Street, and, although there was not a single sound, from a car, from the wind, or from Ben himself, I waited for the green man anyway.
- Shahid mahdi

_________________________________________________________________________________________ __________ 1

The offset of jet-lag was a gift and a curse.

In this respect, Londonium was the moniker given to the settlements of London that is now the City. In fact, it was the City of London that was nascent and active long before the rest of London got its act together. The etymology of Londonium itself remains a mystery to me.
2.

I wasnt familiar with what Insomnia meant, or the fact that it was a medical condition, until hearing the song Insomnia by the electronic group Faithless. It was a chart smasher, and infected dancefloors across the world with its synths and vocals by Maxxi Jazz, whose name was unfortunately cooler than his career.
3

4The

SAT used to be an acronym for Scholastic Aptitude Test. Now, much like BP (which used to be British Petroleum), it no longer means anything. Many students would say (and professionals, mind you) that it doesnt mean anything to them either.

London is your oyster, geddit?

My family and I used to dine at the Royal China on Queensway before it was replaced by its significantly better sister on Baker Street. Whiteleys, the first department store in London, takes its name from William Whiteley, an entrepreneur and textile specialist.
6

I thought it was noteworthy that the last time I passed the Savoy on a run the Tesco Mum of the Year Awards were being held. Social vacillations, I think so.
7

The 507 bus is a loyal trusty steed, but it drops me too close to my house to ask for the possible cab, and too far to amble home without complaining about the distance. It also used to be one of the bendy buses until Boris Johnson, Londons Mayor, passed legislation forbidding their existence due to their being a fire hazard.
8

The number 9 route, which Ive tactfully reserved as being footnote number 9, is a complete and utter tourist scheme. It begins at Hammersmith and tours London up until Aldwych, and was chosen to be a heritage route, furtively because it doesnt traverse any run-down or crime-ridden areas of London and passes by many a monument. It is a beautiful aged Routemaster model.
9

10Sharjah

is technically a different Emirate from Dubai, where I grew up. But because the only private hospital was there and due to its proximity, my father and mother pragmatically headed to the Al-Zarah Hospital. Fun Fact: Ishan Guha was born there, though a couple of months earlier. TBC on whether we flew into the world from the same bed, though Id rather not ponder it too much.

11Westminster

Abbey, Houses of Parliament, Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, and the edge of Regents Park. Why is the park possessive but the street not?

12The

Knowledge is the zany set of rules, principles and routes embedded into every cab drivers head as a prerequisite to the profession. In simpler terms, it is the process of a cab driver having a map of London imprinted onto his head. The assessments which make up the course apparently take a number of years and are done by scooter.

13Another

place Id like to apply this principle is the current Whole Foods building on Kensington High Street. There is a logo emblazoned on the top of the buildings chimney named BARKERs, and, even in the blaze of sunlight, it seems a bit spooky, very Lavender Town-esque.

True, this might just be one of my zany theories. But in terms of retail geology, as I like to call it, yes, Oxford Street is somewhat symmetrical on both ends. This is probably due to the fact that there was a classified scheme by the local Council hoping that the traditionally wealthier western end of Oxford Street would match up with the infant eastern end. Waterstones on the west side? Waterstones on the east side. Waffle counter on the west side? Waffle counter on the east side. GNC on the west side? GNC on the east side. Subway on the west side? Subway on the east side. The scale of Oxford Street, commonly referred to as Londons Fifth Avenue, is too tremendous to notice.
14

15Call

it espionage or voyeurism or whatever you wish, but a penchant for taking photos of other peoples cars is a highly rewarding habit. No other city on earth boasts the variety of luxury saloons, hatchbacks, cruisers, limousines or sports cars. Ive archived a collection of Mayfairs finest. Just yesterday on Curzon Street, near the famous Curzon cinema, I caught sight of a dark crimson Rolls Royce with the numberplate 1. I dare you to go three to four days without catching sight of a Bugatti, Ferrari, Lamborghini, or, for the jingoistically British, a McLaren MPC4-12C, or, the Mayfair classic, the Bentley Continental GT. Any parking space between the Hilton on Park Lane and the northern end of Audley Street (past the American embassy on Grosvenor Square) is bound to quench any automotive fetish out there.

16All

roads lead to Rome, so they say. To magnify the purpose of creating the Watling Road is a bit querulous. The disciplined Romans decide to construct a road heading out west, yet it was only much later, in the time of Chaucer and his gallivanting spectrum of characters, who made use of the Watling path, as it it was the de facto way to head out to Canterbury for pilgrimage purposes.

17Walking

is weird in itself. Christopher McDougall, the author of Born to Run, argues that, well, were born to run. So if humanity as a whole is so obsessed with lightning fast convenience and connnection, be it through technology, gourmet services, or entertainment, then why dont we just run everywhere and not walk? Will it only be then that we grieve for the leisure that the antiquated stroll encapsulates?

Nasir Jones debut album, Illmatic, is probably the album that kindled the bond between Will and I. It has received almost universal acclaim from critics, but - as with most classic rap - never really seemed to strike a popular chord in the U.K. In fact, when my sister and I were playing a dance mat game (NOT Dance Dance Revolution, mustve been some petty imitator), the only remotely hip hop tune we could find was Word Up by Cameo. Watch the music video, and what unfolds is a rhapsody of perhaps the most bizarre trends of the 80s. Admittedly, I wish I was around.
18

19Im

elated to report that Yeshuah has made it, and by golly, he really has. Between the time we met him, three years ago, and today, hes underwent a stylistic transmogrification. Hes now subscribed to a spiritual form of semi-Rastafarian liberty, which places the onus on relaxation. Yeshuah is still going strong, and it brought a smile to my face that I was able to include him in this piece. His YouTube name is Yeshuah Diliza.

20Will

is a pretty peculiar but absolutely lovable fellow. Whenever he sends you a message, you know it must be of the highest order of importance, because hes a very oddball communicator. He barely ever replies to any texts or phone calls my friends or I ever send him, and then, one fine morning, hell pop out of nowhere with a flurry of enthusiasm. My friends and I often get flustered at his behaviour, but at his core hes a true stalwart of the manly cause. Hes shipping off to Mumbai with his family this summer and will go even further East by heading off to Australia for university, where Ill doubt hell ever get in touch with any of us, until...one fine morning....Heres to you,Will. Stay Scheming.

21Again,

more socioeconomic banter ahead. Waitrose is traditionally at the top of the supermarket hierarchy, leading the pack ahead of (in order) Sainsburys, Tesco, and then ASDA (owned by U.S. giant Walmart). So for Waitrose to be sandwiched onto E.R. in the middle between the south and the north was a calculating decision, one that pays off though. Plus, I suppose although Waitrose may be the most prestigious it is by no means the most profitable. I say go on Iceland, a chain that Ive never had the pleasure of buying 1 fishsticks from, at least not yet.

22The

border between Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park is a thin stretch of road which snakes its way from South Kensington past the Albert Memorial, past the Serpentine, and adjacent to a sandy equestrian path. But in my view Kensington Gardens ought to just be a component of Hyde Park. Tho are like warring sisters arguing over who is prettier, types of women who appeal to different men. K.G. is pristine, innocent, well groomed and cultured, whereas Hyde Park is a more rowdy, concert-going, worldly and adventurous sort of type. I cant decide between who Id rather marry. Ive played football in both, ran through both, and have lied in the grass in both areas. K.G. also has ornate botany and has its own palace, for heavens sake. Hyde Park used to boast the Crystal Palace (hence the name of the football team), which was one of the British Empires true gems back in the late 19th century. It was burnt down, and no one ever seemed to have the spirit to resurrect its glory. It too is a part of lost London. K.G. might just nip it for me due to its little open public-access wooden hut. Tango lessons are taught there on Thursday evenings, or at least I think so. I usually just grew fond of it as its usually where I would stretch midway during a run, acknowledging how far Id come, but also aware of the fact that I had to trudge all the way back home.