Instead of an unhinged lunatic you may
 glimpse a punctured soul-a mere human
 being like you.

— Shannon Love

It was 5:30pm on the District Line at South Kensington station in London and thousands of tired bodies loaded themselves onto the Underground. Like tightly packed mackerel in a tin can, we could not wedge another body onto the train. I was stuck somewhere in the middle of this mess. It smelled more like a locker room than a train and everyone seemed bothered or perhaps irritated. I tried not to get in the way. I was hefting a backpack and a folding stroller. The train was so cramped that sound waves had no room to vibrate and stayed in the throats of the passengers. However, just after the doors shut, the man standing next to me somehow coughed out a narrative that stunned me. Not like an electrical shock, but like a shaking of the head when you can’t believe what you’ve just heard. I felt his words press into my ears like white-hot steam. And even now, while I sit with folded hands in the library, his words echo through my mind. I can’t stop thinking about what he suggested and how it changed my point of view. I can’t stop thinking about the feeling I had of jumping on top of this guy and pecking his eyes out like a hen. In a proper English accent, full of terrible verbiage that I have edited out, he began: The world is unhinged and If we don’t do something soon – the world is, well, over.

I had been in London for one day and jetlag had me in its grip, so I questioned if I had connected the dots correctly. Did I understand the man to say the world was ending? I somehow imagined the end of the world would look different and I was not sure I wanted to experience the end of the world on a train with strangers. I looked around the train, moving my head from side to side. No one seemed overly concerned with his comment. I imagined mass panic, looting, violence, but today seemed like, well, Monday. I scratched my cheek and rubbed my jaw. Did the man know something we didn’t? Perhaps the end of the world is when everyone is sad and packs themselves on a train and flies through the belly of an ancient city because they don’t know what else to do. Imaginably, something had taken place–something terrible, like a nuclear disaster or famine. But I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. I looked at the man sharing his thesis and lifted an eyebrow. The man wore a tailored dark blue suit that hung perfectly from his meager frame. A trimmed beard matched his meticulously shined oxfords. Small wire-rim glasses sat balanced on his sharp nose. Why would this man have such a negative outlook? He looked so… normal. But, there was something in his voice, his tone, that worried me. I thought he might be a lecturer at the London School of Economics and Political Science, or perhaps King’s College, or The Imperial College of London and so I figured he would have deep insights into the world. I expected he had an insight that others may not, especially me. After all, what do I know? I was a stranger in a foreign land and was at the mercy of what the locals narrated. My mind started to swirl, I wanted to know more.

I looked at my two little traveling companions – my three-year-old and my thirteen-year-old. Somehow, they had found a seat while most passengers stood toe-to-toe. The children were doing their best to stay awake as the heated exhaust of passengers mixed with the swaying train and clickety-click of the track. My children’s faces were wide-eyed, taking it all in. My wife, standing by the children, spotted me looking around the train and grabbed my attention. She too lifted an eye-brow to declare, “gotcha!” Had she heard the man? Would she be worried to hear the world was ending while we were in London?

Suddenly, my attention was caught by the professor as a follow-up comment was about to begin. The professor revealed more serious dangers to his friend, a younger copy of himself, standing inches away. The man explained what he meant by “unhinged.” His face urgent, straight lipped, peeping eyes, leaned into his glasses and loudly explained: From my vantage point (What vantage point?) the unhinging of the world, is caused by our current financial crisis, border conflicts and all of those… refugees. Now, he had my full attention. What language and what distain. And like a chorus warming up, he pointed the next verse up a full octave and brought the conclusion.

The teacher revealed that the greatest concern beyond the financial crisis, border conflicts and refugees, was a beef shortage that has the UK and Europe by its throat. According to the man, once the UK allows US beef to enter the market with its “hormones” and other “stuff,” the door will drop off the frame. He went on, I am telling you, man, it’s all about beef and 5G Chinese technology. I hate the Chines as much as I hate Americans and refugees.

Ravenscourt Park was still three stops away and my winter coat, along with the rehearsal of the man’s narration, was proving to be too much. I unwrapped my scarf and held it in my left hand while my right hand tightly grabbed the yellow railing. My hand went white with tension. What should I say to this man? What do we say to strangers with whom we disagree? I acted as if I did not hear them. From my vantage point, I looked across the top of hundreds of people, I could not detect a beef shortage and I didn’t see how new technology could be a dilemma. What was this man seeing? What was I missing? Why did he have so much hate in his voice? Did he know I was American? Inside, I started to think about his thesis and I am ashamed because I said nothing. I stood there, chocking the handrail.

Looking back, I should have handed the man some tape. I didn’t predict hearing such an unpleasant story, such a bleak and desolate outlook on the world. “Here is some tape, put it over your mouth.” Perhaps unkind. Maybe not.      

The train jerked hard to the left and the lights went out. Everybody lost their balance. I was hoping the two men would fall and smash their heads together, but they were agile, like alley cats. I was half thinking I would see their eyes glowing in the dark. The lights flickered and then everything was normal again except my view of the world and these men. The younger of the two caught me staring at him and we locked eyes. Like two owls gazing at each other, he presented me with the “What’s up, Dude?” head nod and then we both looked away. The young man continued to agree with the older man and interject his jabs as well. I couldn’t wait to get off the train. I turned towards my children and tried to forget the conversation. London was being unkind.

The train slowly emptied itself and by the time we reached Ravenscourt Park the men were gone. With the scratchy announcement from the driver that we reached our destination – after minding the gap, and taking the children by the hand, we stepped off the train. Taking in a breath of fresh air, we were instantly assaulted by smells. This time, the smell of the high street: sweet curry from the Indian restaurants, burnt sugar and baked bread, tea and stale ale. Smells, I think, could be used to map the city. Although it is February, the blossoms on the trees are showing themselves and add a flowery aroma to the mix. We walk to our flat, floating through the smells of the city. I drag the darkness and negative outlook of the world from the train with me. It is stuck to my shoe.

Safe and comfortable in our rented flat and far away from the train, I thought about all of this. I thought about the man and his ideas. I struggled to put everything together. Like a jigsaw puzzle, I examined the pieces spread out before me. While my wife rested on the bed and my son searched for the best WIFI signal on his phone, my daughter tugged at my shirt while I gazed out the kitchen window. The tiles in the kitchen is black and white checkered squares, like a giant chessboard. She hops from one title to the next and tugs at my shirt on each round. I examine the Underground trains as they come up for air racing by with their human innards before diving back under the city. The trains shake the foundation of the building and rattle the windows.

What are you doing, Daddy?

Looking.

For what?

She makes another lap.

For something I lost.

Like what?

I don’t know.

            I think the picture of the world I have painted is perhaps too optimistic. It is inaccurate and lopsided. When I hear others speak of destruction and hating people it disturbs me and I feel as though I have lost something, but what, I do not know.

I lift my daughter to gaze out the window with me. Perhaps she will see something that I can’t. And, she does! She points to the park and to the playground across the street where hundreds of London’s children are playing and running. I doubt any of them are thinking about the end of the world.

Can we go?

Of course!

Suddenly, forgetting about their jetlag and the search for WIFI, my children grab their jackets and wait for me at the door. Like puppies they run in circles and impatiently yelp for me to let them out. I think how happy I am to be here, to encounter a different part of the world, to discover the voices of so many nations, and watch my children smile. I remember a Moorish proverb that claims he who does not travel does not know the value of men. I open the door and descend the five stories on the posh carpet staircase that snakes through the center of the building.  

Our rented flat is on the top floor of a red brick building. Hamlet’s Garden is the name of both the street and the Victorian style construction we call home for the week. When I think of Hamlet’s Garden, I think of Shakespeare and wonder what his London was like? Was it coming off the hinges? When speaking of London, Shakespeare said, “hell is empty and all the devils are here,” but he also said, “I like this place [London] and could willingly waste my time in it.” And so, hauling our jetlag we seek to avoid any more devils and go in search of a park to waste our time. We flag a taxi and ask delivery to the Princess Diana Memorial Park.

Can you take us to the Kensington Gardens?  

Yes, Sir! We can do that!

 We make our way into the back of cab. There is so much room compared to the train I think we should pick up a few more people. 

Are you on Holiday? The sun is going to shine all week, and the city is in tip-top-shape! It will be lovely.

The Cabi’s attitude makes me laugh as it is so starkly different than the men from the train. It is similar, I think, to Shakespeare’s London of devil’s and the joy he found in wasting his time here. It seems surreal. 

My family and I, he continues, are flying to America next fall for my wife’s 40^th. We will visit San Francisco and Monterey.

My daughter’s eyes brighten as she knows these places as home.

We live in Califormmah, my daughter blurts. (She always says it that way.)

The Cabi gives a belly laugh and snort with the way her American accent of California sounds to his ears.

Well, maybe we can stop in for a bit of tea. That would be lovely.

We laugh and joke while the driver furnishes us with an audio tour of London on our journey from Ravenscourt Park to Kensington Gardens.

Enjoy your time in the city! He says. It’s a wonderful place to be! No better time to be in London. You will love this park! It’s one of my favorites!

The Princess Diana Memorial Park is also one of our favorite parks. The children all but sprint from the black cab and street into Kensington Gardens. As we follow, too tired to keep up, I wondered what the response would have been if I quizzed the Cabi about the unhinging of the world? I assume he would have laughed it off. Nearing the park, we hear laughter as if the city is piping the sound into the air.

In the center of The Princess Diana Memorial Park stands a wooden pirate ship–the centerpiece of the park. The park is a children’s wonderland, which opened to the public on the 30th of June 2000, in memory of the late Princess. Next to her Kensington Palace home, the playground pays tribute for a Princess who “loved the innocence of childhood.” The park hosts over 1,000,000 visitors each year from every corner of the globe. My children would nod in agreement that the park is a place “to play, explore, dash about, and let imaginations soar.” At the park, you will find a “sensory trail, teepees, a beach around the pirate ship and various toys and play sculptures; all set against a lush backdrop of trees and plants.” In winter, they trim the lush vegetation back. It seems on warm sunny days in February, the world, with or without lush vegetation, hinged or unhinged, comes to play.

When we enter the gates of the park, the security guard gives us a warm smile and welcomes us to the playground. You must have children to enter. I think this should be a rule everywhere. My son tries to keep up with his sister as she runs carefree around the park with her long, waving blond hair. They duck in and out of hundreds of children. Blonde hair, black hair, brown hair, red hair, and no hair, all are part of the landscape. My wife and I find a wooden bench to sit, watch and listen. The bench is brown, worn and fatigued. The paint is chipped, but after thousands of people resting on it, I can’t say I blame it. The location we chose is a small alcove just off the sensory trail between a spinning play apparatus and an oversized vertical marimba. Giggling children ran in every direction as the tones from the musical instruments filled the air. The entire scene is made to add to the magic. In front of our bench, only a few feet from my resting place, is what I call the jumping nine-square xylophone.

It is made of brass. The three-by-three square, fixed level in the ground, presents nine pads made for children to sound by bouncing on the squares. It is like the kitchen tile in our flat, but with sound. The squares are atonal: they incorporate no sequence of tones. It would be practically impossible to play a familiar tune by jumping on a pattern of squares.

Children assemble on this metal spring-loaded square. Someone could claim this place as the axis mundi made of springs and hinges. The metal is so worn that it reflects the sun. It presents the appearance of something you would encounter in a holy place. I visualize the Buddha sitting cross-legged on this spot, Jesus raising the dead, Muhammad reciting the words of Allah, Moses and the burning bush, Krishna teaching Arjuna. I see these spiritual figures in the faces of the children, which seemingly represent every culture in the world.

The children talk, they jump, they fall, they help each other up. Like an enormous magnet, the jumping platform attracts children from all corners of the park. And one by one, they take their turn often six or eight at a time. The children toss the tones of chimes and giggles into the air and I wonder if Princess Diana can hear them from wherever she calls home. One little girl, blond hair and blue eyes, much like my daughter, discovers herself alone on the instrument. I am her audience. She does her best to hop from one square to the next to create a lyrical melody. Like a frog, she jumps from right to left, forward to back, and then back again. She rehearses the song several times and then gives me a quick smile before she runs back to the pirate ship.

I felt a sudden joy. The flare began to catch fire, and I was overcome with emotion. I stood and waited for the space to empty and I took a photo. Looking back, I wish I would have taken a photo with the children’s shoes on the xylophone, but all I have are the memories and the photo of the empty instrument.

Sitting back on the bench, there was a part of me that wanted to take the nine square xylophone and like Moses, hammer out a brazen serpent. I would take the serpent and fasten it to a pole on the pirate ship and ask the man on the train to look.