Camden Town

I uprooted my entire life in the States to go find the London of Dickens. I wanted to live in the bustling 19th century neighborhood of Camden Town where merchants sold everything from sweet lavender to containers of chicken broth, right there on the streets. I wanted to meet the likes of Bob Cratchit and Mr. Fezziwig. I just figured that London would be frozen in time, and exist in the way the Charles Dickens had portrayed it (for better or for worse). Was I surprised when all I found was a normal city with cars honking, people rushing around, tourists gawking, and no tomfoolery afoot whatsoever. But then I saw him. I could swear I saw him. It was Tiny Tim, singing on the corner for money!

I watched from a distance. I watched him for a good long while. When it started to get dark, he collected his hat with the coins and cash that the passers by had offered, and he limped off with his crutch. I followed, of course. He turned the corner into an alley with no name, but it was filled with a haze of chimney smoke and a flickering glow from gas lanterns lining the street ahead. As soon as I turned into the alley to follow I could smell a foul stench. It was a mixture of burning oil and urine. When I got to the street with the lanterns, I could here shouts of people and the moans of beggars sitting on the cold cobblestone. The hum of electricity was gone, replaced by an eerie echo of voices that bounced off of the bricks buildings.

I was immediately accosted by a group of young boys. Tripped and pushed to the ground, every pocket rummaged, and a blunt blow to my head.

“Welcome to Camden Town, gov’na.” It was the last thing I heard before blacking out, and the last thing I saw was the mangy looking creature that hissed those words into my ear.

I woke up in a cold sweat in seat 28F.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. We’ve started our decent into London and the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. The flight attendants will be around to collect any rubbage.”

I wasn’t sure if this was my version of being visited by three ghosts or if it was just a bad dream. Regardless, my stay in London was brief and limited to the confines of Heathrow airport. I had a change in plans. Maybe a trip to Steinbeck’s Monterey would be a little less stressful. Yes, cannery row might be just what I needed. I rubbed the welt on my head and headed to the reservation desk.