When a foreigner is in a strange country, the native people often ask him about his impressions. Recently I was the foreigner traveling. I had previously been to the former socialist countries: the Baltic States, Eastern Germany, Poland, Russia and even the Far East. However, I had never traveled to any of the "capitalist countries". As you have guessed, the author is from a "former socialist country".
So now I've been to the United Kingdom. I visited the famous city of London and was fascinated. I had left Ukraine with my eyes and my mind wide open. Here in succession of events are my general impressions.
Our plane executed a perfect landing at Europe's largest airport, Heathrow, taxied up to the terminal, where we collected our few belongings, descended the telescopic trap and stepped out onto the ground. Without a doubt - British. London was at our feet, although 24 kilometers still separated us from it... But - can you really call that a distance?
The embassy considered one a persona grata and had given an entry visa. Still one felt he had to draw nearer to the country, which was new to him gradually, step by step, sensing the dust of its roads on one's soles, looking around its environs and, unceasingly contemplating everything in turn. That's safer: you won't notice your illusions disappear, and in the end you will adopt the independent stance of a person, who had not expected anything else here and, even if he had, would never admit to this fact. Just as a true Englishman, who would never allow himself the luxury of being surprised by anything.
Here, in some hours, you're transferred to the British Isles and dumped upon the heads of unsuspecting Englishmen, who knew nothing about your arrival, and even Her Majesty. We shall automatically become guests in Her Kingdom for awhile.
It must be said that stereotypical ideas unfailingly warp the imagination. We had read in books that London is identified in our country with fogs, fireplaces and a standoffish gentleman in a derby with a tightly swaddled umbrella he won't forget to take with him, even when leaving for the nether world. And, of course, one should not forget the ancient castles and playful ghosts living permanently in them, who behave quite decorously in general, but now and then misbehave, quietly terrorizing inhabitants of ancestral nests.
In short, a full gentleman's collection of warnings about kind, old England, drawn from the works of Dickens, Thackeray and Conan Doyle, who worked so well on your disposition. But we'll have to part with them for a couple of days (not for all time, thank God!) or in any case subject them to severe criticism. Yes, there they were those geographic mirages - you couldn't even immediately understand which city you had precisely reached...
Apparently life here, like time itself has been thoroughly adjusted to the Greenwich meridian, flowing to age-old canons which deviations are impermissible from and are chastised by a collapse of ideals. We would prefer time to come to a standstill in our conscience than allow ourselves to make any disturbing correctives to the imagination. In this sense, we may well be akin to the English. They will not part with their habits for anything. If you deprive the British taxpayer of his morning "Times", or the 5 o'clock ritual tea drinking ceremony, or refuse him the pleasure of casting a sorrowful nostalgic look at the crackling logs burning in the fireplace. You would achieve a success that even the Unconquerable Armada of Spain could not attain.
However, time, of course, does not stand still for anyone. Change is inevitable. For even that sage, who has seen so much in its lifetime, Big Ben, personifying the stability of British foundations for Londoners and guarding Time, stopped some three years ago. This caused a commotion among loyal Englishmen, believing in Big Ben, or rather in its godfather Sir Benjamin Hull, and perhaps thinking that the end of the world must be coming, or something...
The first glimpse of London did not disappoint - subtle, with a perceptible cultivated sense of a reverential attitude towards ancientry, the city, priming itself to some extent with its conservatism, was a bit self-assured and full of its own dignity. But with no snobbishness. However, affable, displaying good manners, and acting like an old acquaintance, even if you find yourself here for the first time. But when you associate with this city - you should immediately adopt the right tone, speak in a courteous manner, and in no way hobnob with it.
The changes applied to everything, even such reserves of British conservatism as the English clubs, located on Pall Mall and by-streets adjoining this famous street. Picturesque gentlemen hide there from the fussiness of the rest of society and often try not to associate among themselves, or raise an eyebrow in amazement, even if they are notified that their ancestral castle has been occupied by spacemen. But I can imagine the indignation ("Gentlemen, England is going to the devil!") which would be raised by even a slight deviation from the age-old canons proclaiming that, of all people, representatives of the fair sex must not be allowed to come any nearer to a club than a cannon shot. Women appeared in the service staff, and even several clubs, if grudgingly, women were invited on Fridays. So, where could you hide from the changes?
This was about all there is in London. But you won't find, however hard you try - on the ideally cropped emerald lawns (they say that the green coating is still intact in January) of Hyde Park or the adjoining Kensington Gardens - any of the former warning signs, with variations on the theme "Keep off the grass!". This type of stencil would be unthinkable among the bright islets of emancipated people of all ages, convinced that it's best of all to rest sitting or, if you wish, lying right on the evenly cropped grass carpet. Or, at worst, in chaise longues placed there where, after paying a few pence, you can sit the whole day long if you want.
Incidentally, there is an amusing place in Hyde Park - Speaker's Corner by Marble Arch. On Sundays, you can climb onto a box or any other improvised platform, gather fellow citizens round you and astonish them with a plan to reform our sinful world, which is absolutely incomprehensible to common sense. As democracy gives one the right to speak straightforward nonsense, as a certain Lord noted haughtily, here you can really hear everything, including the storming of Buckingham Palace or a reform of British Parliament. This is a very humane idea - to let a person speak out, if he can't bottle it up any more. And, the main thing is that they don't bother anyone.
I won't go so far, of course, as to judge all countries, but in England a pedestrian feels like a human being. Although snobbishness is present in the owners of the most prestigious cars and, perhaps, precisely for that reason, clearly a pedestrian here enjoys privileges, which even a "Rolls-Royce" or "Jaguar" is afraid to encroach upon.
If you have to cross a street - there is no problem. The car nearest to you will brake politely and the driver will propose with a smile and splendid gesture: come on, don't be shy, why are you standing there... Anywhere in the center of Kyiv, where the mighty motors are hardly held back by the traffic lights, such altruism would be simply unthinkable. Consequently in London, unaccustomed to this, you feel yourself uncomfortable, your conscience even bothers you slightly, when a luxurious car stops timidly to allow you to pass. And you become confused when you hesitate at the curb and let the Good Samaritan at the wheel understand that you're in no hurry and can wait. After all, you're no Prince of Wales. But the self-respecting driver remains firm in his intentions to serve you and won't move from the spot, until you've crossed the street.
Now, finally, Piccadilly - the last place on our trip to London. This is virtually the center of England's capital. This street is often called a tourist's Mecca, while the Piccadilly Circus at the end of the street is referred to as the heart of London. As evening approaches, the facades of the houses burst into multicolored flashes of advertisements.
It is sad to part the shores of Albion, when you've only just begun to understand the character of old, kind England: however, we don't have enough time left to get better acquainted. It is time to pack up for the return trip and repeat to one's self, as a vow, the words of a classic: "I leave England and am sorry! That is what my heart is like: it finds it hard to put with everything that has entertained it, albeit slightly..."
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