along the high street

The long weekend isn't even one entire day old and I've already defaulted on my resolution not to think about lab issues, science and Imperial College. It was my fault. The day developed as I had envisioned. I took it easy in the morning, ate, read, wrote and practiced the flute for the first time in nearly four months. At some point in the afternoon, I started to make my way slowly towards town, in the general direction of Imperial College. As I said, training runs were high on my to-do list for this weekend.

Before I could take off into the late afternoon, my long wait rewarded with a mellow sun appearing from behind thick, moist clouds, my student got a hold of me and wanted another question answered. And there I was, thinking about science again. I gave him brief advice, basically telling him to enjoy the Easter break, wriggled from his grip, and off I was in the park. It was late already and I was lazy. Good thing I had planned a fast run. I was back at the start line quite a bit less than forty minutes after I had taken off, out of breath, surely, but very happy with my performance. Now if I can just get one long run in...

Turning my back on College, I walked back towards Kensington. A lovely network of back streets connects Imperial with Kensignton High St, free of traffic, noise and dirt. Left and right are Edwardian buildings with white-washed fronts and naked brick that looks as if it had been cleaned only days ago. The cars in front of the gates hint at the wealth of the occupiers and so do the little shops that cluster here and there, vertiginously upmarket for the most part. A small gallery epitomizes the poshness of the area.

I noticed Hackel Bury for the first time when they had a wide selection of Salgado's for sale, monumental black-and-white photographs from his Genesis project. The majestic iceberg that advertised the show in the shop window would have been perfect for over my fire place (the small jpg doesn't nearly do it justice), but the price, oh my god the price... To be able to afford it, you probably have to live around the corner.

I don't and I can't, but there's no reason to despair. Businesses that cater to a more modest audience are not far away. It's only a few steps to Tackeray St. and the Montparnasse Café, the best Parisian bakery this side of the Channel. I sat down, had a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat, and felt the effort of the last hour glide off of me. Around me murmured many tongues, but most conversations were in French. It felt like being in Paris, surrounded by fellow tourists and a few locals, only here, given how tucked away the café is, all customers are probably local no matter what language they speak.

As I lounged in my wicker chair nursing a coffee that was slowly losing steam, I pondered my strong reaction to the café. I absolutely love it. I enjoy being approached in French – it gives the place authenticity. When I go to the grocery store where I buy bread and the staff are Polish, my reaction is the exact opposite. I hate it when they speak Polish to me, which is always, and I hate that some of them speak no English at all. It doesn't make me feel welcome at all, and yet it isn't any different from the French bakery. The conclusion obviously lies in my command of the French language and complete ignorance of the Polish. I like to be in control.

From the little bit of Paris it is only a few steps to a big bit of the US. The first Whole Foods market outside America occupies a splendid Art Deco building that used to house a major department store. I went there because they offer a food and wine tasting on Thursdays. For five pounds you get to sample five amuse-bouches, each paired with a matching glass of wine.

For sheer variety – I had pork belly on lentils, tomato bruschetta and antipasti salad with chorizo, among others – this deal is hard to beat. The wine servings look stingy at first, but that assessment changes by the fifth glass at the latest. As always, not everyone is happy. One elderly lady asked my why I was shopping with a glass of wine in my hand. I explained the situation to her in term that would have had Whole Food's marketing department offer me a job on the spot, had they heard me, but the lady was less than convinced. "The wine is dreadful", she hissed and walked away, muttering, as if to herself: "But you wouldn't know. You're an American." "Ta-ta", I was tempted to shout after her in my poshest accent, "but the tea is splendid." Such exchanges only happen in the movies, unfortunately, and by the time I had formulated the reply she had already disappeared into the organic oil and vinegar aisle. I was left laughing at my chorizo starter.

When I reemerged from the food emporium with a full belly and a light head, it was already dark outside. Time to start the night. A few doors down the road, an inconspicuous sign above the kind of door you only want to enter if you really know where you're going advertised the Live Lounge. My friend knew where she was going. We descended the stairs and entered a dim jazz club, painted entirely black, that was almost empty. Only two other tables were occupied, and the mood was somber. Emma-Jane Thommen, an amazing singer and pianist, gave her best, but she didn't stand a chance against the void. She sang with passion and sparks were flying, but there weren't enough people to catch the fire. Nevertheless, and disregarding the eerie atmosphere, it was a great show.

I was wondering if the desolate audience – this was Thursday night – was a manifestation of the recession that everyone keeps talking about. Kensington High St. gave me more food for thought. During my first year in London, all commercial properties were occupied and trading briskly. Now, there are big holes, to the tune of one out of four. First, Zavvi's went bust. Then WH Smith and French Connection closed their stores. Sony and Sisley were next, followed by countless others. Boarded-up windows, especially conspicuous at night, mark the departed. It is a sad sight.

I'm not a frequent shopper, and as long as the Oxfam stays open, I should be happy, but even I can see the disaster that's building. Who wants to go shopping when half the stores are closed? Who wants to be continually reminded of the catastrophic economic reality when the personal situation is only marginally (and maybe temporally) better? It looks like a textbook example of a negative feedback loop to me.

Tomorrow, for breakfast, I'm going to get a Financial Times. Maybe some signs of hope can be spotted. And even if it's all doom and gloom, at least it's gonna take my mind off the lab.