A Humorous Story About London

In London, the sun is like an honest minister: it appears rarely and leaves quickly. Therefore, as soon as I saw that the sky had cleared and the sun had poked its head out as if repenting for its long absences, I decided to make a patriotic sacrifice for my body: to go out and catch some rays. I took my swimming trunks out of the wardrobe, where they had been sleeping for two or three years, like relics of a time when I still believed my belly could be hidden with a deep breath. I put them on carefully, grabbed my bag and set off towards the large neighborhood park, the one with no trees in the middle, which the English call an “open green area,” while we Albanians would simply call it: “a field where people roast like peppers.”

The grass was as green as a detergent commercial. The trees along the edges had burst into bloom, and scattered amidst that English quiet sat a few women and girls, each in her own universe:

one on her phone,

another with a book,

yet another doing gymnastics with headphones in her ears, as if training to catch a flight without a ticket.

As soon as I arrived, I threw my bag on the grass and started undressing with the seriousness of men who think they still have their beach physique from 1987.

At that moment, I felt several pairs of eyes on me.

One lowered her phone.

Another looked up from her book.

The one doing gymnastics slowed her pace.

“To hell with it,” I said to myself,

“I came for sunbeams, not eye-beams.”

But I carried on anyway.

I put on my headphones and started moving my knees a bit, because age needs maintenance just like English bicycles.

Meanwhile, because I was moving, I was unwittingly getting closer to the ladies.

In my mind, this was completely normal.

In their minds, I probably looked like some Balkan immigrant out on an aesthetic hunt.

The closer I got, the more they retreated into their privacy:

the book was opened wider,

the phone was raised higher,

the gymnastics girl sat down on the grass as if hiding from the taxman.

A little further away, a lady was petting a large dog.

The dog, as soon as it saw me approaching, bared its teeth with a professionalism that only London dogs possess.

At that moment, my headphones stopped working.

The music ended.

I looked at my phone: no signal.

It seemed the internet had also decided to isolate me.

I turned back towards my bag and the signal returned immediately.

“Fine,” I said, “even technology is against my getting close to people.”

As I was walking, a young couple passed by on the path. A shapely blonde, with a chest so proud it looked as if she were carrying two anti-aircraft cannons, said to her boyfriend:

“Look, look at grandpa! He’s peacefully sunbathing, while I’m running late for work!”

The boy smiled philosophically:

“Grandpa has worked all his life. He’s raised his kids, secured his pension… now he’s roasting in the sun.”

I was left speechless.

Five minutes ago, I felt like a romantic immigrant in the park.

Now I had just been promoted to “solar grandpa.”

I went back to my spot. Another young couple was approaching. The girl wanted them to lie down near me, because the trees there were prettier and the grass greener. The boy held her by the arm with that typical masculine look:

“I control these territories.”

I lay down with dignity. But then I realized the true tragedy of the day. My swimming trunks had gotten very tight. Underneath them, my underwear was digging into my flesh like economic sanctions. I started wiggling my waist a bit to adjust them.

Suddenly, behind me I heard:

“Ahem… ahem…”

I turned around immediately.

A Black man on a bicycle was staring at me wide-eyed.

“What’s the matter?” I said to him.

“Nothing,” he said. “I saw you wiggling… I thought you were wiggling for me.”

I glared at him angrily and spat.

“Get lost, man!” I told him.

He laughed.

“Don’t spit! We’re in London here. Our seed is more plentiful here than in Africa!”

I picked up a stone and threw it at him. He pedaled his bicycle with Olympic speed and vanished.

The couple next to me was laughing to tears. The boy kissed the girl on the neck.

I looked up at the sky. Two airplanes were passing slowly towards the London airports.

And there, lying on the grass, with my belly battling my swimming trunks, with the sun burning my nose and my pride melted away like a July ice cream, I thought:

“Ah, London…”

Here even the beach is “on dry land”…