A Tour Along the Thames

Tonight, I met a girl from my hometown in New York who had come over to study in London for a year. I'll call her C. She was about the same height as me and wore a burnt sienna coloured coat that tied around her waist. Her hair was tied back. She's homesick. Very homesick.
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Her residence here is like a jail, she told me. Her flatmates call their dining room the Interrogation Room because it just has some rickety old wooden furniture and a single lightbulb that hangs from a wire.
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We walked under the tunnel toward the old fortress, the Tower of London, then down the path a ways to the stairs that led up to Tower Bridge. The River Thames flowed slowly beneath the bridge that 40,000 people cross every day. Darkness spread across the sky already, but the stars were hidden in the clouds of city smog.
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Making our way to London Bridge, C told me about her boyfriend E who I know from home, stories about her family, and how she can't believe what she has gotten herself into. Culture shock. I told her it will get better and to hang in there.
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Walking into London Bridge station, I drooled over the Pure Pie stand as we passed seeking out salad for C. Then I got my pure pie. A haddock pie with mash and gravy and peas. Nummy. We carried our containers back through the tunnel that smelled of sour mildew and underground, back into the chill of the London evening. People rushed by in black suits, stood on street corners outside pubs smoking the cigarettes that are now banned on the inside. Everyone was in their own little world.
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C asked me about which areas to avoid at night as we followed the alleyways back toward the river. I pointed to the glowing purple top of the power station that was transformed into the famous art gallery, Tate Modern. She's an architecture student so she appreciates these things more than most.
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Her first experience with buskers was when we passed under one of the bridges near Tate Modern and two drunken tramps were singing in screechy tones with cigarettes dangling from their lips. One was strumming a guitar that was badly in need of tuning.
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But when we passed under Blackfriars Bridge, my favourite bridge in London, we were welcomed by the beautiful rich tones of a cello, a melody that echoed smoothly through the tunnel. It was played by a man in a tuxedo, his eyes closed, the back of his coat flapping gently in the breeze.
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Strolling along the river, we passed the round white and black Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. To the right, the river flowed opposite our trail and on the bank where we walked, I pointed out the skateboarder's graffiti-covered area and the South Bank Book Market that was only marked by a sign attached to the river wall. She loves books as much as I do and I'm sure she will be back.
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Ahead of us glowed the bubbles of the London Eye that peak at 443 feet above the river. It appeared still as it always does, but as we approached we could see it moving round at a snail's pace, 10 inches per second so it takes a total of half an hour to rotate around once.
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To our left were rows of trees lit up with blue and white bulbs and street performers lined the south bank. As we walked, I remembered the many days and nights I spent on the south bank three years ago, when I worked for Fleet Street Publications with an office on the seventh floor of the Sea Containers House overlooking the river.
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The south bank at night, the lights stretching the length of the Thames, the laughter that bounces on the wind carried over from tour boats, the sweet songs of the street artists, the skateboarder's little graffiti-covered world and the book market, the unique structure of the Millennium bridge... This was where I first fell in love with London. It seemed so grand, so important, so full of life and culture. I felt a shiver through my shoulders and pulled my jacket tighter against the breeze. I shook myself back into the moment.
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C loved the rounded structure of the Saatchi Gallery and the Aquarium. I showed her Namco Station, the little arcade where T and I used to play on the bumper cars and lose money in the 2p games.
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When the Houses of Parliament and the glowing clock tower that houses Big Ben came into view, she gasped and stopped to stare for a minute. I smiled and said, “Now there's some architecture for ya, eh?” “Very gothic,” she said. “It's gorgeous!”
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We walked toward the architectural masterpiece, over Westminster Bridge, back to the north bank. I pointed out Brian Haw's peace protest camp in Parliament Square that has been going on for the past six years, and Westminster Abby beyond that.
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We turned right and headed away from all of that down toward the gates of Downing Street where guards stood to protect the residence of cabinet members and Prime Minister Gordon Brown in the infamous number 10.
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At the end of the road lay Trafalgar Square. I tried to explain the appeal of the lions that guard Nelson's Column and the pretty fountains. C liked the idea of the National Gallery. I led her past some cheesy tourist shops with double decker bus ornaments and Big Ben teapots in the windows, through some winding streets. I showed her the sprawling arcade of Trocrdero and Amora, the Academy of Sex and Relationships. We continued to the famous advertising lights of Piccadilly Circus. I've always found them quite tacky, even though they are mesmerising, and she agreed.
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From here it was either toward Oxford Street or Soho. I ruled out Soho for the moment and we carried on past the closed shops on Regent's Street. Naturally, I pointed out Lush and told her she must indulge when she can. However, she's here for a year with no job racking up a debt of American dollars to her parents. Everything, therefore, will be paid for doubly, and I doubt too much indulging will be taking place.
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Carnaby Street stretched to our right and I told her about the shops that way and Ain't Nothin' But... the blue's bar on Kingly Street. And then there was the glory that is Oxford Circus, and being that Top Shop was still open at 9:30, we went inside. Her eyes popped at the sight of all the bags and jewellery and coloured tights on the first floor, the collections of sparkly tops and underwear on the second and the rows and rows and rows of shoes and cheap designer clothes on the bottom floor.
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We wandered down to Tottenham Court Road area and, at 10, we figured out where she needed to go to get home. I taught her how to use the bus here and then walked back to Oxford Circus and hopped on the Bakerloo line with my book, secretly proud of myself for learning the streets of this city well enough to walk confidently from Tower Hill to Oxford Circus without thinking twice about directions. When I first came here, I was tube-obsessed and didn't realize how close the stops really are. And I knew I could easily walk furthur on to Baker Street from Oxford Circus.
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I toook a cab from Queen's Park and was greeted by a jolly old African driver who came from Eritrea, a little country in East Africa between Sudan and Ethiopia. He had velvet skin and big animated hands that waved about as he told me stories of his travels, his trips home, his sons and his family. He got a kick out of a trip to America. He kept going on about how big everything is and chuckling. He seemed so happy.
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The smile he flashed me, exposing an even row of white teeth, one gold toward the back, as I handed him my £6 stuck with me. It was contagious and as I slipped past one of my flatmates who was lazing on the couch in the lounge watching Dallas, he said, “What are you smiling about?”

I shrugged and went to the kitchen to wash some raspberries. I coated them with sugar and went to join him and tell him all about our adventures.