Never Walked In High Heels

Athena has gone to look for some sun! (remember THAT thing London?) But she’ll be back April 4th with more stories which could probably only happen to her…

The man stepped out of the shadows in the rainy night like a snake lurking after its prey. Walking square into my path I swerved left, clearly in no mood to make conversation. Please, just let me go home, I thought. I’m in no mood to deal with crazies tonight.

“Excuse me Miss, do you like the opera?” Realizing that we were standing in front of the opera house, I thought fast.

“Don’t know. Never been. Good night,” I quickly replied trying anything to shut the conversation down. If there is one thing worse than talking to a crazy, it’s talking to a semi cultured crazy who is vaguely aware of his own surroundings.

“Would you like to go tonight?” The openness of the question took me by surprise. I had never been approached by someone scalping tickets before. Was that all there was to it? Just a simple proposition on the street corner? My parents live in Las Vegas, so the fact I was suspicious about any street proposal was not so much saying anything about the man now making a proposition outside the English National Opera House as it did about myself and subsequent background. “Look Miss,” he said, noticing my skepticism, “the ticket is right here. Check it for yourself.”

From a tattered coat pocket he produced a single ticket with the ENO’s official logo on it for that evening’s performance of Radimisto. It had sold for ninety pounds.

“Don’t you want it,” I began, stumbling for speech and trying to wrap my head around what was happening. I was being offered a ticket for the best seat in the house to the opera, by a man who sold the Big Issue on the street.

“Nah, it’s a warm night. I’ve seen this production about five times and I’m getting tired of it. Besides, you always smile at me when you go by and I like to see you smile. You’ve never been to the opera before, you said.” Did I really smile at him? Usually, when I was going up that street I was in such a rush that I didn’t think I noticed anybody.

“No, I’ve never been to the opera. I- I’ve always wanted to, but… I can’t take this ticket, it’s not for accessible seating,” I stammered. Absolutely nothing in my life had remotely prepared me for a situation as gracious as this.

“Oh, that’s not a problem. I know everyone on staff here. Eddie will change your ticket to one you can get to, no questions asked. I’ve known him for years.” At this point, if I hadn’t been sitting in my wheelchair I would have fallen over. “Let me just hide this Big Issue badge, so the public doesn’t mind me, and we’ll go in and I’ll introduce you.”

“I really don’t deserve this,” I muttered under my breath, realizing my horrible actions of a few minutes ago.

“I’ve been to the opera over eighty times this year. I’ve been a drinker my whole life. Look at me. Do you think, out of anyone in this city I deserve to go to the opera multiple times a week? People just give me their ticket when their friend can’t make it or they have a conflict. I don’t deserve it, it’s a gift.” With that he took me inside.

After the performance that night, with the snow coming down against the taxi I took home, I had grace on my mind. It is one of the few words left in the English language which doesn’t have a negative connotation. Charity, faith, hope, even love can be said in such a sneering tone that it gives the impression of naïvete and starry eyes. ‘Grace’ has yet to be soiled by such cynicism. There is no such thing, yet, as being too graceful. I have yet to read a performance review where the critic says “the singer’s grace was distracting and lead to a loss of depth in the character.” We love grace in all its forms, in movement, in character, in language, in passion. We talk about the ‘grace of God’ when we are afforded a fortune we do not deserve. In short grace saves us from a very bleak existence.

In music a grace note is defined as “an extra note added as an embellishment and not essential to the harmony or melody.” And perhaps in an aria or composition a grace note is not essential. In fact, many who do not find value in music or art may say the entire piece is inessential to life on this planet. We can survive without art, or music, or dance. But the fact that a Big Issue seller finds joy in being given tickets to the opera eighty times per year proves that we cannot survive without grace. The fact that he was willing to give his ticket to me, a cynical person more willing to rush about her day than look at the man right in front of her who offers a gift, proves it still further.

“You are a very very brave young woman,” she said turning towards me and placing one hand on her walker for stability. We were on a pedestrian island in the middle of Trafalgar Square, making it halfway across the street before the light changed color. For me it was because I had arrived at the crosswalk towards the end of the green cycle that I had gotten only partway across the street. I had seen this woman edging across long before I myself had reached the crosswalk and, due to her age and gait, only had made it this far.

“Not as brave as you,” I replied, smiling at her gumption. If there is one intersections which distresses me above any of the others in London it is Trafalgar Square. Here, cars guide their way through a maze which resembles a bowl of spaghetti more than an intersection. For every crosswalk there is at least one pedestrian island which warns you that crossing in one go may be difficult for some. Indeed, the lights a choreographed in such a way that it almost takes a study in geometric principles to work out how the lights can be timed in your favor. And, to top it all off, being one of the most famous and photographed squares in the world means that when you are there, you feel like one is at the centre of the universe and everyone in all galaxies both known and unknown is watching you attempt to cross from one end of the square to the other in some sort of existential trek, metaphorically symbolizing the frailty of human efforts in the attempt to strive for meaning.

Or a least that’s my perception. My friends think I’m nuts and offer the advice “when you see the green guy go, when you see the red guy stop.” Thanks.

Suffice it to say, I wouldn’t let my grandmother cross Trafalgar Square alone. And the idea of anyone else over the age of seventy five doing so made me very nervous. I edged forward to offer assistance. Maybe she could hold on to the back of my chair to gain support to cross the street. Even when one is dependent on everyone else, it is still impossible to squash the reflex to help someone else in need when you see it.

“In my day, young women like you barely even left the four walls of their home unless they were heading for a shelter during an evacuation. Good for you.” I froze.

In London, it is impossible for me to look into the face of an older person without wondering if they had been around during World War II. Unlike the majority of working age Londoners, those from the generation who survived the Blitz still look you in the eye. And every once in a while, I catch a fierce gleam inside of the person, without exchanging any dialogue which says “I have seen parts of this city reduced to rubble. I have seen it built back up again. I know that life is filled with both pain and joy.”

This was a woman who had survived much in London, her eyes asserted it. Which is why I was shocked that she would ever call me ‘brave.’ A person who had watched her country be attack by enemy fire when victory wasn’t certain surely cannot begin to find courage in a young woman crossing the street on a sunny day, holding a patent leather bag with one hand and getting ready to dial her iphone with the other.

When local heroes are interviewed we hear them say over and over “I was just doing what anyone else would’ve done in my position.” And perhaps heroism, at it’s root is not about what you do when the stakes are high, but rather what you do when there isn’t much of a choice. Live or die. Fight or roll over. Go out or be a shut in. Cross the street or stay stagnant. In extreme situations, there really are just two options. And more often than not “heroes” are the ones who choose the more desirable option rather than facing destruction.

If two women on opposite ends of the age spectrum can meet at a crosswalk and admire the drive for life in the other, then the best things in this world are both inexplicable and universal. I don’t feel particularly brave just because I choose to cross the street, even in Trafalgar Square. In my mind it’s what everyone does, so I do it too. And maybe those who saw bombs falling on London, who waited it St. Paul’s Cathedral with buckets of water to put out fires, and who rebuilt their lives choosing to keep pushing hope, did so because there was little other option. At our core, we want to keep straining away for more life.

The light turned green in Trafalgar Square, and everyone around us started crossing the street, making it natural for her and I to do likewise. We were on our separate ways again.