Excuse me! Where am I?

Katy's story..and mine, on a bank holiday, on my way to a tattoo parlor  in Hammersmith


When you do all the talking your mind is engaged in so many different processes that it can at most, manage the function of hearing, but not refine it into the art of listening. I wanted to say you might, but in fact you will at best, walk past the very thing you need, that bit of inspiration, that shift in perspective, that smidgen of hope, that burst of laughter, that meet-cute you cynically dismiss as hollywoodian but secretly desire, that bright idea or distraction that helps it germinate, that story, that humanity.Worst case scenario? you walk by someone in need, headphones in, mind busy scheduling, computing, assessing, shades on, hood on, target locked, efficient, focused, trained operative. Heart off because you need the RAM for navigation.

It was Friday and despite having a day off - bank holiday, I was on a mission. I'm not sure people realise the gift of bank holidays, in an era and a city where in order for you and I to meet, my people must to talk to your people for at least a week. This is a day when if not most, at least a lot of people are free. Hence the shops are hives, the retailers, the tailors, the furniture shops and car dealers, the money draining, distraction providers of all sorts are busy bees, And we keep them busy, putting off our life admin and our (not so)essential activities to bank holidays, to days off, to that precious time that should be valued, not spent.

I was going to pay off a debt, for which reason, I feel comfortable subtracting myself from the bank holiday missioners. Someone trusted that I would return the next day with the 20 quid I was short, asking for no guarantees (this in itself, for any Londoner, is a victory). In fact, when I eventually arrived, much later than what I had declared the previous day, the guy who ran the place told me he had forgotten about it. I smiled and said I hadn't. He said I trusted you and  said I appreciated it and meant it.

I was making my way to the place of trust - and it is a place of trust, where the people who work there make their mark on you with the equivalent of a knife and ink and where the person who goes in surrenders their skin to become a canvas for their own vision, mediated by foreign minds, eyes and hands. It's non-judgmental, advisory but not enforcing, intimate, intrusive but not offensive, a sharing of the burden of responsibility, from which so many shy away in the world of free arbiter.

I was walking along Hammersmith Rd and passing St Paul's Gardens and the sky was dark grey, but not heavy. Full, plump drops of rain started falling and I pulled my hood up, hands in my pockets, music in my ears, smile on my face. I turn my head and see a blind woman in the garden, on the path, so I slow my pace. I have this curiosity, fascination and deep admiration for blind people and have recently felt the need to try scratch beyond the surface.

At first, I thought I could see her lips moving and thought she's talking to the pigeons she could certainly hear around her. I thought she's out for a walk, for air, it may have been part of her ritual, as I assumed she was a local. I walk on. And stop. I walk back, take my headphones out and watch. I watched to check if she was alone and saw she was. I thought she might like to talk to someone but instantly pulled back and thought of myself as presumptuous. At last, I step into the park, no game plan, but busy coming up with one.

"Excuse me! Where am I?"

The relief on my face, in my demeanor- I'm happy she did not see it.
"Hi! We are in a park, it's called St Paul's Gardens."

"I don't know how I got here. I stepped off bus no 9 and then took a right. I thought I was in the vicarage garden. You see, I am going to the vicar's house, which is to the left of the church hall on Edith Rd."

"Oh! I don't live around here but I'm headed towards North End Rd and I know Edith Rd is on the way. I can take you. Let me look it up on my phone to make sure"

At this point, she wrapped her hand on my right arm and I felt grateful but also felt this pressure like a student in an examination, like I couldn't fuck up on reading the map because I had her trust around my arm. 

She turns around, away from Hammersmith Rd. She's trying to retrace her steps and explains " I came in through here. Edih Rd should be at the back."

I follow obediently, indulging, though I clearly see that the shortest route was in the other direction . I was following the blind, fully aware we were going the wrong way, from a desire to not make her uncomfortable because she had lost her way. It was a quick sequence in my head - we'll walk the way she feels is right and surely there will be a right or a left turn to take us to our destination. It will take longer, but I can get us there.  I realise how awkward I am, tip toeing around, being politically correct and corseted when this woman needed guidance.

Luckily I come to.

"In front there is a flight of stairs and I am not sure where it leads to. I have Edith Rd on my map. We'll turn around and walk along Hammersmith Rd. My name is Ioana. What's yours?"

Her name is Katy. She lives in Hammersmith and has done for over ten years. She lives on her own, though her house is blind proofed and her phone speaks but is not smart and does  not have navigation. At this point my mind is blown! I have eyes and navigation and get lost, confused, I see landmarks, I can describe whereabouts, I don't need to remember the left-right sequence, the number of streets, the sounds around, I have a whole host of alternatives at my satellite's recalculating fingertips and still, I get stressed out, worn out and treat each target hit like a shiny girl scout  badge that reinforces my independence.

Katy doesn't work because it really is very difficult to find a job as a blind person. It has to be local because she takes longer to get to where she is going. She sings in a choir at her church and volunteers at church events. The people who go there are all very lovely. In fact this afternoon they are getting together to plan Easter at the church for the children.

I want to ask her so many questions but my maps and my smart phone played me. Edith Rd. We take a right and there it is, second building on the road - the church hall, with the vicarage to the left and a nice, welcoming, smiling, understanding, tolerating, warm and accommodating vicar in the doorstep welcoming his flock into his red brick house. It's surrounded by a beautiful, vibrant garden where raw green, scarlet roses and pink azaleas intertwine playfully to remind you that there still is tradition, faith, community and that it doesn't mean a thing to you, but a world to someone else.

I hand Katy over. The vicar welcomes her, assuring her she's not late. Katy explains she lost her way and couldn't quite see how. She introduces me to vicar, says thank you, then disappears into the house and I say good bye.

Katy was what I needed that Friday; and I was what Katy needed. I wanted to figure out Katy and she wanted to figure out how she lost her way. I guess we'll both have to piece our missing pieces together, on our own. Katy will venture out again on the same route and I will keep looking to shed more light on life in darkness. I will share when I do. The irony? Can't figure how to turn my satellite off and it's  draining my battery very fast, leaving me with no access and no support when I actually need it.