Welcome to London

Everyone has told me to prepare for a culture shock. Actually, it’s more like a cultural disturbance. England isn’t Trinidad you know, people said when I told them I was emigrating. The obviousness of the statement belies its deeper meaning. And it is true. It’s like no other country I have ever been to — but that isn’t as disconcerting as one would expect.

The first thing that stands out is the fact that nothing stands out. The residential areas are confusing; house after house, street after street look the same. The same facades, the same flowers — huge, heavy-headed cabbage roses abound, geraniums in little plastic pots stand on windowsills, outside doorways. The commercial centres aren’t much different. Everywhere in London so far seems subdued, as though there is no desire to call attention to oneself. There are no gaudy signs, no loudspeakers, no bright banners and flashy posters.

The temperature alternates; the weather, living up to its reputation, is schizophrenic. Mother Nature is bipolar, I think. On Tuesday I walked the streets of Lewisham in a vest and low rise jeans, sweat beading on my face. Thursday, walking through Kilburn district in a thick cardigan, the wind blew cold and raw against my face, pierced like tiny knives through my clothes. I noticed people in fur-lined anoraks and boots pass by. I thought about Jean Charles de Menezes, the Brazilian man shot several times in the head by English police in the days following the bombings. They said he drew their suspicion because he was wearing an unseasonably heavy coat. Teenage girls pass me in micromini skirts and cropped denim jackets that open to reveal thin cotton vests underneath. A woman walks by in a trench coat and fur-lined boots. Just what is considered an unseasonably heavy coat, I wonder.

On the underground, under tastefully designed posters for theatre musicals Billy Elliot and We Will Rock You, a woman has spread out her possessions.

Assorted boxes surround her. She is slender and pale, her hair is black and held up in a scraggly ponytail. She is resting on her haunches bending over a plastic bag, carefully counting the coins in it. She’s in a short vest and skirt, black stockings with tiny pink flowers cover her legs. The scene is oddly private, as though this is taking place in someone’s bedroom and not on a public transport system.

A man, partially parked on the pavement struggles to get a baby in the car seat into the back. I step into the road and walk around. "I’m sorry," he shouts after me when he raises his head and realises he was blocking my path. In a store, I wonder if a grey spot on a pullover I am buying is dirt or the lighting. "Would you like me to change it for you? the young cashier asks and smiles. When I say yes she happily goes downstairs for a replacement. "Is this better?" she asks when she returns. She is still smiling.

I have been cured of my penchant for eating out. Everything I’ve read and heard warned of the notorious blandness of English food. It is true. My rescuer has been a bottle of Royal Castle pepper sauce I bought at the airport as a spur of the moment purchase.

I think I will start putting it in my bag and walking around with it for culinary emergencies. Food has been reduced from taste to texture. Fish tastes as though it has been simply washed and cooked. Huge chunks of chips awash in vinegar are quickly reduced in the heat and cold to lumps of soggy potato. Chinese food is a disappointment — the shrimp raw and unclean, with the shell still on. I think, if I have to eat out, I will give up fish and become a full vegan. My stomach weeps in protest.

After I write this column I will be going out for my first English pint with a friend and her co workers. I’ve made sure to eat at home before I leave.

The temperature outside is 21 degrees Celsius, so it’s sneakers and sweater time. I will walk past the monotonous houses that really aren’t that much the same, it’s just that their differences are subtle. I will walk into Catford; perhaps the Pakistani man in the electronics store will be near the doorway again and tell me "hi" as he’s done previously. The little Nigerian boy who stands outside the store where calls to Nigeria and Jamaica can be cheaply made may smile shyly at me if I have to stop there to shelter from the rain. Slowly, but certainly, I am fitting in.

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