From the moment humans beings are born, we're biologically programmed to avoid potentially dangerous situations. We fear heights because of the danger of falling. We fear loud noises because of the imminent violence which may ensue. We fear the dark because of the danger lurking where we cannot see. At the same time, humans are educated to avoid those dangers which are not instinctive. Our parents teach us to fear strangers, drugs and even sex. What evil people. . . But no matter how much effort we put into avoiding these situations, sometimes we fall into the fire.
Unfortunately, the fact that this is written means that I'm alive (fortunate, if you're me), so one can only assume that I've survived - or that heaven allows me access to my blog. However, after tonight, I cannot be sure that I'll ever be safe in London again. Pause for the moment of melodrama.
Tonight started the way any Monday night starts - with me thinking about where I'm going to drink. I had spent the day with a friend from home who was visiting, and returned just in time to check what everyone had on the agenda for the night. Much to my dismay, schoolwork, nothing and watching movies were the the most frequent replies which were returned to my inquisition. Then came the text message from Vadim.
Vadim: (text) Come to Marble Arch at 10:30
After a brief period of contemplation, I responded that I would be there.
A hour later, I was standing outside the Marble Arch. After a few text messages back and forth between Vadim and myself, I learned that I was to walk to a place (which I cannot name) about five minutes down the road. Without the slightest bit of skepticism, I proceeded.
I arrived in front of (the place which cannot be named), realizing it was a restaurant. Although nobody was inside, several groups of Arabs were outside on the patio, though Vadim (Russian) and his friends were nowhere to be seen. Checking my text messages again, I concluded that this was, in fact, the correct place, so I proceeded to walk inside and ask one of the waiters.
Me: Hi, I'm supposed to be meeting some friends here.
Waiter: No English (walks away to the back room and comes out with another man)
Man: Can I help you?
Me: Yeah, I'm supposed to be meeting some friends of mine here.
Man: Are you American?
Me: Umm, yes?
Man: No Americans in here. Who do you look for?
Me: Vadim ________, a Russian.
Man: Ah, follow me.
(The man escorts me to the back of the room to a door that reads, word for word "Do not enter." He opens the door, where I immediately inhale the strong scent of flavored smoke and hear the vibrant sound of flutes, tambourines and some guitar-like instruments.)
Man: Downstairs.
I slowly proceed down the stairs and hear the door quickly close behind me. I hesitate for a second, contemplating going back out the door, when I stupidly decide that I should see what's downstairs. As I walk down the stairs, I feel the adrenaline rushing within me as the scent grows heavier and the music rings louder. As I reach the final step, I turn to see the room I knew would be my last.
The lone room was quite small and dank. Worn, wood floors were accompanied by rusted chairs, several pairs of shoes and a litter of shisha bongs, and dark, crimson red wells lined with arabic paintings encompassed this morbid den. The ceiling, which at one time I'm sure had been white, was now stained a dark gray. Decrepit, square tables scattered about the room were burdened by peoples elbows, cups of tea and occasional plates of food. Worn booths surrounded the perimeter. An Arabic man standing in the center of the room was swinging a bowl full of hot coals. Two other Arabic men were seated behind a desk a few feet in front of me to my left. I took a step into the room and looked around. Several sets of condescending eyes were fixated on my from the men in the room as if warning me to turn back. I took another step forward. To the right of me, a table of four young Arabic men were playing dominoes. Not the enjoyable, tip-them-over dominoes, but the type were money was made and lost on the table depending on the order at which a player positioned them. I noticed a T.V mounted on the wall, where Arabic music videos were playing, and the news was being displayed in Arabic writing. I knew I was the only American who had ever been in this place.
I scanned the room and saw Vadim and four of his friends. I approached the table, was welcomed and took a seat. Minutes later a shisha was presented to me from one of the men working. I declined, where I was then returned an accusatory glance. The man took the shisha and walked to a back room, where he returned minutes later with a few cups of tea. I obliged.
Over the next two hours we discussed many things. Women, politics, countries, customs, nearly anything and everything. I was told that this place was an underground (literally and figuratively) shisha bar, due to the smoking ban in restaurants. I described my initial shock and fear, which received a round of laughter due to my naivety.
Russian: Muslims don't hate all Americans. Only the ones who didn't vote for Obama.
Silence is a true friend who never betrays.
