Maida Vale is our Local

If you must leave someplace, you should leave it sad to go.

After we left our Randolph Avenue flat, we were desperate to stay in Maida Vale. It isn’t the best place in London, just as any single person isn’t the best person in the world.

No. Just like a person, every nook of London has something charming and warm, someplace worth nuzzling. If you’ve made that place your own, you get attached, no matter how gritty or posh.

Maida Vale is our local.

It’s where our halal, Soloman Supermarket, is.

It’s where, at the Starbucks, I wrote two books.

It’s where the recreation ground is, the one where I played tennis and made friends with Fiona.

It’s where Leslie and his dog Thomas walk everyday, and we stop and chat.

It’s where Frances and I found each other.

It’s where we found another Canadian Colin, whom we like very much.

Blossom Maida ValeIt’s where we ran into the Bannermans on their way out, Steve drenched in sweat from his cycle commute.

It’s where Tim and Peter lived on Elgin, and cooked for us, before they got married and moved to the country (not in that order).

It’s where we lived, practically, with Soren for a year, who loved the Cubs and Wisconsin and one very long hallway and who helped us moved twice, and called Trivial Pursuit: “T.P.”

It’s where our London friends are, on Lauderdale, Essendine, Castellain, and Widley Roads, and Sutherland Avenue, Warrington Crescent.

It’s where we met Penny, on the first day, who got me the job at the Warrington.

It’s where I found my feet, and learned to appreciate a cloudy sky.

It’s where we lost a baby, and Colin lost a job, and where we drank with our neighbours, who all walked home the day the bombs exploded.

It’s where bowling became something done on a green,and al fresco parties were held on the rooftoop.

It’s where foxes were our neighbours and horses trotted past our morning windows.

It’s where we discovered how the question “You alright, mate?” could be a greeting.

It’s where we drank too much and ate many packets of crisps for supper.

Maida Vale is our local. No blue plaques to mark the places where we’ve been. Too busy, too many others to remember and deal with and forget again.

Anyway, we’ll know we’ve been here.

Elizabeth Howard

Elizabeth writes literary non-fiction, haiku, cultural rants, and Demand Poetry in order to forward the cause of beautiful writing. She teaches and speaks about the rhetorical impact of beautiful writing. A recent transplant to Connecticut, she calls London, Kansas City, and Iowa home.

 

  3 comments for “Maida Vale is our Local

  1. Lisa Blair
    May 22, 2007 at 11:20 am

    I just discovered your blog today. I like this post. I like how you describe one’s local, one’s home as maybe not the best place in the world, but the place one feels is her own. The place where memories and born and live on. I feel this way, too.

    Thanks for sharing.

  2. Suzy
    July 11, 2007 at 5:52 am

    I was born in Maida Vale, but left London over 30 years ago, returning for the first time recently to visit my childhood home.
    I love Maida Vale and after visiting it again, I spend each day longing for a time when I can return there to live. I don’t know why I love it so much, maybe there is some kind of “homing pigeon” instinct in all of us…

  3. August 22, 2007 at 5:17 pm

    I lived in Maida Vale for six years, and am now back in New Zealand, but still have such good memories of the old neighbourhood. It obviously has the same effect on others…

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