Day One Hundred and Eighty Six-Durante’s Dance By Chaos Smiles and curious looks bounce off walls of the Underground, reflect my own who, what, where glances, as I move through London’s intestinal tract, a living meal, imported from distant shores, as eager to digest this new experience, as it is to consume me. I ascend to the surface of this city, filled with architecture that has bourn the weight of a hundred thousand gazes—millions of eyes— Roman to Romanian, Anglican to Baptist, Christian, Muslim, Black, white, yellow… This city respects all comers as friends, neighbors, family… …of man. The earth moves beneath my feet, slight writhing sway, sonic echo of trains in constant motion beneath streets that never sleep, arterial pulse of nations pumping in and out of the Queen’s city. A golden statue, bearing the face of Jimmy Durante, stares into the nothing-space of a cobbled walk teaming with tourists, most gawking in wide eyed wonder, some more wary and distant, all lost on the irony of an Englishman portraying an American actor in this most English city. Eyes examine the statue from international angles, curious. Coins, bearing a more royal face, rent out a box at Durante’s base. My own hand dives for the Queen’s likeness in a deep pocket. The cheerful clink, as my coin greets its cousins, breathes life into the carved monolith which springs nimbly from its plinth. Durante dances, his movements robotic, hypnotic. Moments pass, unheeded by we watchers, outside of time, mesmerized as Durante becomes the sculptor, carving us into statues. The golden man with the protuberant proboscis resumes his former place and demeanor. Spell lifted, the crowd returns to reality, applauding the effigy of Durante. I move on in reluctant satisfaction, eager to examine the next living bust, the next brief glimpse of the unexpected, in this city that shuns conjecture in favor of the fantastic. Unfamiliar smells drift past, demanding their share of my attention, drawing my proboscis, to a small shop. Pies, small boxes of golden crust stuffed to bursting with beef, chicken, vegetables, or fruit dance a savory dance, that puts Durante to shame. My hand moves of its own volition, drawing more coins with the speed of a gunslinger. The other hand points, trembling in glorious anticipation, salivary glands prepare for the feast. At a sunlit table my mouth revels in the taste of cinnamon, apple, and spices I cannot place. Delicious…should be a longer word. From every quarter I hear the sounds of music, jazz, opera, and more mingled with laughter, conversations in a dozen languages— the sounds of life, surrounded by shadows of centuries past and something more… Just beyond the senses of sight, sound, taste, smell, and touch. history lurks, bearing the past, present, and infinite promise of future. I am not the first traveler to witness Durante’s dance, taste the warm sweetness of a pie, or hear distant strains of O Solo Mio weaving through London streets, nor will I be the last— a thought that yields inexpressible comfort, warming the heart of this solitary traveler, as no song or pie ever could. I have become part of something larger than myself, and I wonder who the next wanderer will be to witness Durante’s dance, hear the vibrant sounds of this royal city, sit in this chair, and— bite into a sweet slice of history, that tastes of cinnamon…
Posted on: Thu, 21 Nov 2013 22:48:52 +0000
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