people watching

On this Sunday afternoon late in October, I expected dullness, greyness and more than a hint of mist in the air. If English weather is still to be relied on, it should be drizzling nearly constantly. Not enough precipitation to be called rain but, frustratingly, enough to be thoroughly soaked and cold to the bones within minutes.

My cunning plan was to dash over to the Westfield and pitch up in one of the many coffee bars overlooking the immense street-like corridors that recall sidewalk cafés but don't suffer from the wrath of the elements. I wanted to observe the bustle that's inevitable in a shopping mall and see if I could make out some memorable characters and put their idiosyncrasies into a funny little post of no particular significance. It was meant to be an exercise in writing and a bit of comfort to those of my readers who get restless during periods of blog silence.

When I stepped out of my flat and onto a road that's usually notable only for its bleakness, I saw my plan shattered in all its intricacy. Leaving the house, I entered a beautiful day, one that would not tolerate time needlessly spent inside. The switch back from daylight savings time might mark the passing of summer more clearly than the official start of fall a month earlier does, but no one seemed to have notified the sun. It shone brilliantly and with enough force to keep any autumnal chill subdued.

Truth be told, I wasn't surprised. It was laziness not fear of wetness that had kept me inside earlier. Today was the continuation of a glorious weekend, with sun, voluptuous clouds and a special light that made me regret not bringing my camera. It was fall at its best, with angelic atmospheric conditions supplemented by turning leaves ruffled by a soft breeze. Happy people ambled through the streets without worry or aim. The usual mad Londonian rush had been suspended for one day only.

In a display of my trademark decision-making rigidity, I walked over to the Westfield anyway but once inside couldn't stay there for long. I don't know what it is, but despite the airiness of the vast main concourse, I felt oppressed and stifled. Maybe it was the filtered, artificial air. Maybe it was the lack of a refreshing breeze. Whatever it was, it forced me back out into the light, back to the life of the street.

At the exit of the mall, at the interface between the corporate virtual world of the Westfield and the grit of Shepherd's Bush is a café whose opening, two months ago, had filled me with great expectations. Beyond its awful name of Cap'uccino, there was a lot of potential. The design was clean, modern and relaxed. Small tables with comfortable-looking chairs covered two floors, eschewing any discernible pattern. A battery of shiny espresso machines was parked behind a long bar stocked with Italian pastries. Everywhere were stacks of books, all written in the same language and provided for those eager to enjoy Italo Calvino or Primo Levi in the original. I don't read Italian easily but I saw myself become regular.

That was before I entered the place for the first time. The coffee was good and the cornetto delightful, but I don't expect a host to meet me when I enter a coffee shop, and show me to a table. I also don't need a menu that's bigger than said table. Where am I going to put my Eee? And where does my coffee go? Is this really the kind of hangout where I can stay of hours, lingering over coffee while catching up on a week of news in the paper? After that first visit, I haven't returned and today, I wasn't in the mood either.

Instead, I went the few extra yards to the Green with its collection of coffee shops, a wild mixture of corporate and family-run. Whatever their differences, they all share the view across the Green, potentially pleasing but continually obstructed by double-decker buses pulling by in slow motion. I got my macchiato and spread The Times out but got distracted by what happened between me and the buses before I could dig into the first story.

Humongous African ladies paraded by, carrying entire safaris on their colorful throws. Tough kids with gigantic sparkling ghetto pins in their ears marched by stiffly. There was a tall Thai girl with impossibly long legs whose only bit of clothing was a bright little something negligently slung around her hips. For a brief moment, she walked next to an identity under wraps, oblivious to the contrast. Hidden underneath copious layers of impenetrable black cloth and only revealed by two arms dangling from the largely globular shape, hovered a woman as crass in her obscurity as the Thai girl was in her exposedness. Neither provoked more than passing glances.

Nor did the Persian gentleman endlessly fiddling with his scarf, trying to pull it over his ears in a way that didn't immediately suggest a purpose. Temporarily blindfolding himself he almost banged into a ginger-haired member of one of the regional tribes, who lead an unconspicuous existence in London. It took me half a year until I met the first specimen out in the streets.

London is such an effortlessly colorful mixture of people of such differences in appearance and behavior that any alien landing his craft in Hyde Park could simply climb out, walk down the street and blend in with the crowd. Maybe they are here already. The four dudes in thongs above bright-blue diving suits that made their way slowly from the tube station could have come from another planet. These guys actually did get a few stares but only those of the inquisitive kind, people wondering what they were up to and then getting on with their business.

I felt the need to get on with my business as well. While my coffee had cooled down and turned limp, my newspaper had remained untouched and my Eee never left its bag. The sun was still out but only just hanging on with vanishing power. Soon it would sink, taking with it an afternoon that had appeared so brilliant but whose essence I had quite miserably failed to capture and preserve in words.