The
stone stairway, whose footing slid into the brown and ancient Thames River, provided
seating for the early and the jolly. The
Globe Theater shouldered the bank above the stairs. Behind the Globe’s closed
doors, Macbeth applied his makeup, the staging crew fingered the bags of fakery
blood and checked the trap doors. Having
arrived well before the play’s ticket-takers, prepped for drama, I looked out
to the scene of the London bankside on that September eve, searching for some
memorable and fortuitous entertainment.
The
Cheese Grater, the Gherkin, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and a multitude of other
lesser known rooflines postured boldly in the bright slantwise light at the end
of the rare sunny English day. The pub
quayside filled-up with plastic-cupped ale drinkers, the sidewalk traffic moved
slowly past the huckster magicians and the performers - men with hoops, whose
languid and majestic bubbles swept sideways followed by cascades of little
iridescent globes - jettisoning children into bubble popping ecstasy.
There
was already a rarity of rail side seats, but as I nudged between two gawkers
and looked over the edge down to the bankside of the Thames River, I spied that
stairway to the river below me. There
was a seat or two remaining on them; that is, if I cared to insist that the two
lovers scoop up their banquet spread on a napkin between them and balance their
edibles in their laps, leaving me a seat.
Or if I requested of an elderly couple - sitting a chilly foot apart
grouching at each other – if they couldn’t share their animosity at a closer
range. I erred towards hovering
patiently until the elders, still grousing, left. I took their fifth-row seat up, safely above
the occasional lapping wakes produced by the river traffic. Snub-nosed tugboats, barges emitting
microphone squawks over the heads of tourists and two lone rowers. I unclipped the lens cap on my camera and
surveyed the glorious expanse of the tidal river, the juxtaposition of old and
new buildings all overarched by the Millennium Bridge.
I
focused my camera on the bridge’s passengers, snapping photos of the characters
walking in and out of my camera’s zoomed lens.
An assortment of humanity. The
father with his two children on leashes, leaping like monkeys pulling in
opposite directions. The hunched
financiers, heads down appearing exhausted and distracted, clutching briefcases. The selfie takers, heads up, stalling traffic
into bunches. A continuum of walkers
crossing the sky.
And
then, that girl with the bike crossing the bridge.
Unbeknownst
to her, with her frock highlighted by the last rays of the day, the roundness
of her wheels contrasting to an upsweep of stark and gripping lines, her head
turned in curiosity, she pushed her bike directly and perfectly into a killer
photo shot. And then, she disappeared
anonymous into the streets of London.
I
capped the lens. Shut off the
camera. Turned my head and there above
me rail side was a photographer with a huge lens. As I joined my sister, my daughter and her
beloved in the crowd entering the Globe Theater, my sister said that the
photographer had been taking photos of me taking photos. Swept through the doors hidden, I too became
anonymous, memorable and fortuitous entertainment in the drama of the London
bankside on a September eve.