Tunnel Vision

I have a favourite bridge in London. It's not a particularly pretty bridge. It's not a famous bridge. It's not heavy with foot traffic. By all standards it is a very simple, concrete bridge, just the same as the many other bridges that dot the River Thames, connecting the South Bank to Central London. And to be honest, the reason this bridge is my favourite has nothing to do with the bridge itself, but with the journeys I've made across it.

The first time I walked across Waterloo Bridge was very late one Wednesday night. My friend Clare sings cabaret at The Cellar Door on The Strand. My friend Evih and I arrive early, stay late, and make our way through a bottle of cabernet. When we finally say goodbye just before midnight (much to late for a school night) I make the decision to forgo the tube and walk across Waterloo Bridge to catch the overland train back to Earlsfield. Despite the fact that we are well into spring by this time, the night is bracing. I hurry across the bridge quickly without pausing to notice the London Eye and Big Ben to my right, or Somerset House and the Gerkin to my left, eyes down, arms wrapped tightly around me, cursing myself for leaving the bar so late and praying that I make the last train home.

I speed along, following signs through an underground tunnel that leads to the Waterloo Station, when suddenly I stop dead in my tracks. I am alone. All alone and surrounded by strips of flashing pink, yellow, and green fluorescent lights, walls filled with verse after verse of lyrical poetry, and the sound of violins drifting in from somewhere in the distance.

Where am I? Did I go through the wrong tunnel and accidentally end up in the opening scene of some emo-yet-strangely-life-affirming indie flick?

I keep walking. Slowly. Cautiously. Painfully aware of the fact that I am alone in this strange tunnel. As I come to a bend the violin sounds become louder, more frantic, and somehow more beautiful. And as I peer around the tunnel, I see that it is violins. Dueling violins in fact. Before me a man and a woman are dancing in the empty hall, violins tucked under their chins, locked in a haunting feud.

They don't notice me as I stand watching them from a distance, their lonely audience of one.

"i dream of a green garden where your sun feathers my face like your once eager kiss", a line of poetry swirls around them as they dance and dance and dance.

I watch for what seemed like minutes, but what can't be longer than a few seconds, eventually brushing past as I hurry for my train.

And as I pass I am suddenly completely overcome by this feeling of being in exactly the right place. Not just in this moment, but in life.

I am in the right place. Right now.

Granted, I have just had half a bottle of cabernet.

That said, every single time I have walked over Waterloo Bridge and through that tunnel since I have felt exactly the same way.

Tonight I cross the bridge and once again stop dead in my tracks, and not because of the lights and poetry and violins, but because of the city stretched out on either side of me. The week has already started off a little rough, and I am feeling exhausted, drained, disappointed, and maybe even a little bit homesick. But this time I stop to see the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben lit up, and the lights of Somerset House glittering ahead of me, and the sun setting on the river. As I walk through the tunnel at the end of the night I am greeted not by feuding violins, but by the sound of a lone guitar and a harmonica.

"No, woman, no cry;
No, woman, no cry.
here, little darlin, dont shed no tears:
No, woman, no cry"

The busker tips his top hat to me as I scuttle into the station toward home.

"You've got a gorgeous smile honey. Come sing with me. We'd make a winning pair."

I look back and smile, a real smile this time, and as I turn to walk up the stairs I'm instantly reminded of something that was said in a yoga class earlier in the week.

"Find your inner stillness, " the teacher said. "Find that part of you that is always quiet, always still, and always knows."

I may not have been able to tap into that stillness during the yoga session, but somehow, in this run-down tunnel, fluorescent lights flickering around me, lines of poetry etched beside me, and Bob Marley tunes floating through the ether, I find it, that inner stillness. And suddenly everything melts away because I am in the right place. Right now.