London, and the worst month of my life

a panorama of Hyde Park from a bench, sandwich in lap

I don't think there are many people out there that could claim to have a worst month ever. Worst day, sure, maybe worst week, and definitely worst year. But a month is such an odd amount of time to find yourself unhappy-- not short enough for a small tragedy, and yet not nearly long enough for a big one. The only thing that can create a worst month is a series of failings, of interruptions to life and love, of complete uncertainty, longing, and anxiousness. That was my first month in London.

We had found our first flat, after a day and a half of scrubbing and throwing out and rearranging, we finally had it mostly livable. There was nothing to be done about the scratched up floors, stained cabinets, or screaming yellow walls, but we were comfortable. We had one table, one side chair, an old futon, and a bed (which we sprayed down and plastic wrapped), and after a couple days we got our computer in the mail from his mom. We found an internet cafe down the street and proceeded to find a laundromat, pub, and local bank-- a Barclays. We wanted to use that one as any other banks would require a public transportation trip, and we were trying to limit those costly trips.

What is it they say about best laid plans? Over the next couple weeks we discovered something about England, and really about life in general. Nothing is ever easy. The internet company told us they only sign up new customers who can provide them with direct debit domestic bank account information. The tv company informed us of the same. Luckily we were able to get cell phones, pre-paid service, and refurbished so they were cheap, so if one of us got lost we could find the other, but we couldn't get a house phone without a bank account either.

Easy, right, just go sign up for an account, like I did when I was twelve and all I had to have was my social security card, $5 to deposit, and great hopes and plans for the future. I had a huge loan available to transfer from the U.S., just sitting in my bank there, so close and yet so far. The application was huge. We promptly filled it out, but as neither of us were employed and had zero credit in Britain, we were promptly denied. For a simple checking account. Without the internet, my husband's job search was very difficult, and the internet cafe hours were adding up expensively. No job, no bank account, but no bank account, no internet, therefore no job. We went in circles for weeks (it felt like millennium) spinning our wheels, trying to make deals, plead, borrow, beg, not quite steal, all to make ends meet. We had to use Western Union with their expensive transfer rates at least three times-- you don't realize all the little things you'll need, like sheets, towels, a broom, a shower curtain. We spent our nights at our one table with a deck of cards, playing gin rummy, listening to British radio. We splurged on the radio.

That first month went by with no progress, and I started school. My husband, bored one day my first week, took it upon himself to try the Barclays one more time. This time he spoke to a young man in a blue uniform named Usman Hameed. My husband is a very charming man, the kind of man who never truly met a stranger, and if you are a stranger, you'll be a friend in less than five minutes. He and Usman chatted for twenty minutes, so I'm told, him asking all types of questions about why we had moved, discovering we were both newly married, my husband quering about this futbol thing and what team he should like, what beers he should try, and where we should go. When they finally got to talking about the business at hand, my husband had made such an impression that Usman decided to help us out.

"What company do you work for, sir?" I can just see them both giggling under their breath, like little boys plotting a prank.

"Why, I work for ABC Marketing, down in Canary Wharf."

"How interesting. And how much do you make at ABC Marketing?"

"About 25,000 a year. That should do me."

"Excellent, sir. Your transfer is set up for tomorrow. Go home and kiss your wife."

And he did. Usman told him as soon as he did have a real job, to come in and change the info, but that he had us covered until then. Even after we moved to another flat about 5 months, we still traveled back to Paddington to see Usman when we needed something. We ran into him on the street once, near Sherlock Holmes' house at Baker Street, with his wife and two beautiful babies. I don't know that he knows how much of an impact he had on our tiny lives then. I wish I had kept in touch so I could let him know.

husband set his watch by the clock at Big Ben

The whole situation, it sounds terrible, right? But there were many happy, even joyous moments interspersed, and so when I look back on it now, I laugh at the bad times and revel in the memories of the good. Like the day my husband came home with the Usman story on his lips and our new account number in his hand. Like the cream cheese and avocado toasted sandwiches from the local deli. And the leisurely walks and picnics in Hyde Park (what else were we going to do with our time?). The touristy jaunts down to Big Ben, the Eye, and Buckingham Palace. Even the trip to the Tower, when we were too poor to get in, but just happy to see the outside, and our wandering trip back through the streets of the city up to Trafalgar Square, through all the pigeons and through Hyde Park again all the way back to our flat.

me in front of Buckingham Palace

We wasted that first month as backpackers, vagabonds, living on nothing but love, exploring our new city, ourselves, and each other. Without money we had to rely on nothing but each other to pull ourselves through, to make ourselves happy. I believe that because of that worst month, the second month of our marriage, and all the struggles that followed that year, my husband and I forged a bond that can't be broken, and because of that there's not a thing, not even a tiny, furry brown thing, that I would change about our time in London.

Next time I write about London, I'll tell you the story of that small furry brown creature, and perhaps my first day of school.