I spoke to two very different people on this journey, the first an older stony faced South American and the second a fashionably dressed guy around my age. On paper, if I’d taken a photo of each of them before I’d started talking to them, you would definitely say that I was more likely to get on with the second, but once again my expectations were wrong and appearances were deceptive.
I stood next to the first guy for a stop before talking to him. He really did not look very approachable, staring vacantly from behind a stubbly and frowning face like a slab of granite. He was maybe in his late 30’s, with a few flecks of grey in his black hair. When I asked him how his day was going, however, he instantly smiled and talked. He even came across as quite boyish, which I think was because his English wasn’t perfect, although definitely good enough, so he was a little embarrassed.
He was on his way to a Venezuelan market in “Eastonn” (Euston) to try and find some food from home, things you couldn’t get hold of in shops. We chatted about living abroad, his studies and different Christmas traditions and foods (apparently a Venezuelan Christmas dinner consists of corn, fried beans and chickpeas, olives rice with “ham bread” if you’re interested). He was keen to talk and was quick to ask me questions when I let the silence hang.
In contrast, the second guy was one of those young people that populate London who seem so sure of themselves, yet are also simultaneously so self-conscious. He was roughly my age, small and slight, wearing a jacket and maroon jeans. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in my circle of friends and I nearly didn’t speak to him, thinking him too easy a target.
What followed was an edgy, uncomfortable conversation dotted with silences and awkward laughter. How’s your day going? was my opener. “Alright mate,” he said with a snort. “Only just started really.” He was on his way home to Bristol for an early Christmas with his family as he was away for Christmas day. I had to do a lot of the talking, and asked him if he preferred Bristol or London. “London, definitely.” What’s good about it? “Going out, I suppose. Places like Fabric, Cable. It’s good for shopping.” Ah, I hate shopping, I told him. “Yeah, me too, I don’t really know why I said that,” he said in a steady dull tone, not intended for laughs.
While not being unfriendly, he was quite dismissive and uninterested, completely different to the first guy. I felt like I was really talking to him, while with the second guy it was more like I was dealing with the front he was putting forward. Which I suppose is fair enough really, after all I was a stranger talking to him on the tube.
It had been cold and foggy outside so getting on the train, everyone was still wearing thick winter coats and scarves. I had a big empty suitcase with me which I parked in a doorway and sat in between two men, one of whom shifted to let me sit down but was engrossed in a game on his phone involving moving pipes around the screen. The other guy was wearing a Doctor Who kind of scarf and had a shock of receding curly hair. Two women sat opposite talking in an Eastern European language, looking us over rather disdainfully.
I went for the guy with the scarf. He was quite sullen, gazing straight forward. Good day so far? I asked. “Yeah alright, you?” he responded, his face brightening. I told him I’d just got out of the house. “Where are you going?” he nodded at my suitcase. I told him I was heading up to Sheffield for a night but I was not about to get on to talking about how quick the bloody trains are again, so I quickly asked him back. “Work.” And where’s that?
He worked at a Premier League football club he said, “with young people on the community outreach programme.” Interesting job, I said. “What do you do?” he shot back quietly. I’m just a barman, I said, serving the community in a different sort of way. I often have to have this kind of jokey exchange, swapping little nuggets of information and laughing which I think serves to build up trust between the two of you.
I asked him to tell me more about his job, asking if he did a lot of work in schools. “Yeah we do, we use football to kind of draw people in. It’s about getting to know young people. I do a lot of employability training with them.” So you use football to lure them in and then trap them? “Yeah,” he said, laughing, “It’s one way of drawing them in.” He kept glancing around at stations like he was worried he’d miss his stop if he became too involved in the conversation.
So what are the young people (I noticed him carefully using this phrase so I followed suit) you work with like? Are they difficult? “Well, I’ve done a lot of work in prisons lately,” he said, “and that’s quite tough. I hate it actually, but it’s ultimately quite good.” In prisons? I asked. I was a bit taken aback that a Premier League football club would have an outreach programme in prisons. With kids is an easy one but I would’ve thought working with criminals might be a bit too spiky for them. I didn’t say that though.
“Yeah that’s probably where I find it most rewarding.” He didn’t quite sound sure about this and I wondered if he was trying to convince me or himself. “It’s quite hard for me because I come from a middle class background and I find it difficult to relate to some of those young people because they don’t have that background that I’ve had, like I’ve got parents that are still together. So it is difficult.”
I suppose we’re all the same at the end of the day though, I said, thinking about how I would approach a situation like that. He seemed a bit quiet, I would have expected it required a certain level of loudness and force. Maybe he had the seriousness to pull it off. “Yeah, there are other people who I work alongside and they’ve been that person on the estate, they’re the ones who go out and find people and be the first point of contact. Increasingly I’m going out more to meet people first of all. I’ve been working there for six years now.”
“Well, this is me, have a good time in Sheffield,” he said suddenly, seemingly quite surprised to be at his stop, and got off.
Getting on the train at Aldgate East, I was confronted with a woman in her mid- to late-20’s wearing a hi-viz jacket and propping up a bike in the doorway opposite. I wasn’t expecting this, so I sat down and thought about an approach. She was looking at something on her phone so I waited until she looked up and then got up and asked what the rules were about bringing a bike on the tube.
She explained, quite formally like she might work for TfL, that you could bring it on between certain times and on certain lines and that there was a map online. “There are some stations you can’t take it in and out of. But I’ve flouted those rules as well.”
I told her that I wanted to buy a bike. “Most places you can cycle but if you’re doing North to South or East to West it’s quite epic.” She was very well spoken, articulate and confident, I’m guessing public school educated, but not at all snooty and a tad hippyish. I imagine she could have been called Felicity, Flick to her friends.
So any tips for not getting killed on the road? “Be alert. I know quite a few people who have had car doors open in front of them… and be assertive. If you’re coming up to a junction to turn right, just get in the middle. And then develop a hatred for cars,” she joked. As with virtually everyone I’ve spoken to, by now she had relaxed into the conversation and seemed happy to talk.
What about the one way system? Do you stick to it? “Different people do different things. I know some people that strongly believe that if cyclists want respect on the road, they have to respect the rules themselves. I don’t know, each to their own. The good thing about a bike is that you don’t have a number plate so you can get away with it!”
We talked about moving to and living in London and exchanged cycling stories for a while as people came and went around us. “I’m going away for the winter,” she told me. A sensible idea, I said. Anywhere nice? “West Africa so hopefully quite nice yeah… I think we’re going through the Sahara on the way there so that will be pretty cold at night.” You’re going through the Sahara? “Overland yeah.” Oh right, by what methods? I asked, Train? “Hitchhiking, as much as possible,” she said miming with her thumb.
This was something I actually had some experience with. I told her I’d hitchhiked down to Morocco before while at University. “Any advice?” she asked and now it was my turn. Choose your lifts, I told her, if they’re not going exactly where you want then don’t take it, and if you’re not getting lifts where you are, change it up and stand somewhere else.
And with that we reached my stop. Good luck! I said as she manoeuvred her bike out of the way of the doors.
London Talking 