Monday Morning

I took my son to the doctor this morning. We walked the usual way, down the high street and then cut through the train station parking lot. On any other weekday, the market would be on, and the high street would be lined with stalls. Sellers would be hawking their wares, some in cockney accents acquired locally, but many in accents from eastern Europe or south east Asia. Our market is not precious, and people do not go there for the exotic or the handmade. Almost nothing there is fair trade or organic. Despite that, in between the undergarment stalls with cheap boxers, thick socks, and bras for a pound, and those filled with household goods, including giant, thin pots, mops and dusters, and those that can unlock your cell phone or replace your watch battery, there are beautiful stalls. Most of the food stalls, for instance, are piled with fresh fruit and vegetables, all a pound for a large plastic bowl full. Like in any market, from open air vegetable markets in France, to Borough Market, to the farmers market in Grand Rapids, to Walthamstow, heaps of red peppers, of deep purple eggplants and of brussels sprouts on the stem, are beautiful because of their bountifulness, their bright colors and the varieties and repetitions of shapes. Here, they stand out in a sea of cheap plastic toys and gadgets. Also remarkable are the stalls with ethnic clothing, some selling garments with bold African prints, while others sell head scarves and on occasion, one may find a black burqa flapping in the wind. Again, these are not high quality, and not meant to be exotic, but are bought and worn as everyday dress. On a market day, the streets are packed and any journey, especially with a stroller, is slow. Today, I have most of the pedestrianized street to myself, and I only have to weave around the construction crews that are taking advantage of the lull to replace the street lights.
The doctor's office itself is dingy. The grass is long, despite it being winter, and it is dotted with trash, mostly food wrappings and old styrofoam cups, but I don't look too closely. I glance at the double doors before opening them, and see a sign that says the senior citizen group has been cancelled indefinitely due to lack of participation. As always, there is a plaque that says buggies and pushchairs must be left outside, but the flyer that says a buggy thief is operating in the area means that I, and every other parent, disregard the rules and wheel our children into the doctor's office. I check in on a computer touch screen and sit down in the waiting room. I am a few minutes early, but the appointments here are short, so you can often get in before your slot. The waiting room is shabby. It needs paint, a few ceiling tiles, and new chairs. There is a sign on the men's toilet that says, "Closed due to Misuse". The one toy, a table covered in roller coasters of bright wooden beads, is broken, and I'm afraid my son might poke himself with the exposed bit of metal. Instead, he tells all the other children “No!” when they try to play, and then climbs on top of the table.
We're called into see the doctor almost exactly on time. Rather than the pristine examining rooms I'm used to as an American, these are decorated in dark colors that blend in with the dirt. They are also half office. The doctors sit there and type away on their computers, before, after and during appointments. I knock at the door and she tells me to come in. So far, in the four or five appointments for either me or my son, all the doctors have been women of color. They do not wear white coats, or any coats, actually, and although they are always friendly, they move the appointment along at a fast pace. After a quick examination that makes my son sob with fear, she says he's fine, I shouldn't worry about his cough, and to come back if his condition worsens. I put him back in his coat, fasten him into the pushchair, and zip up his muff. I've promised him a 'cino from a coffee shop on the high street.
This particular coffee shop is run by eastern Europeans. I have seen the girl behind the counter before, and I start to think about how, in such a diverse community, I speak mostly to people who I think are like me – similar age, similar education, similar interests. Like me, they all have partners, children, and overflowing book shelves. I need to branch out. So I ask the barista where she's from, and it turns out that she's a law student in Lithuania, who is only in London for a year. The woman at the table next to me starts talking to us, too, and she's from Turkey, but has lived in London for 15 years. While drinking her cappuccino, she is pricing bracelets to sell wholesale at trade shows. I ask her if they are sold locally and she says, no, only in areas like Chelsea – they are too pricey for Walthamstow. When I say goodbye, the Turkish woman says that we'll meet again, because she's always in the coffee shop. I go home, and once I put my son down for his nap, I quickly run next door, to apologize to my neighbor for being gone this morning when she and her five month old were supposed to stop by. We reschedule for tomorrow, and as I walk back to my house, I run into a friend from down the street, pushing her two-year-old daughter. “My hand is covered in snot,” she says. “My son is in the house alone,” I say. “Well, then, you're off.”