London Encounters

The October sun woke me up at six in my hotel room on St Martin’s Lane carrying none of the intensity of Mediterranean light I knew from home. London mornings had their own quality - softer, less bright almost like apologising for its presence. I lay in bed for a few minutes, watching dust particles dance in the light beams coming through the thin curtains.

The shower water was hot and strong. As steam filled the bathroom, I thought about my plans for the day and about home. It’s funny how showers make you think about things. The familiar smell of my shampoo reminded me of my bathroom in Turkey, even though I was thousands of miles away.

The streets were quiet when I left the hotel, it was just an inch past seven on a Saturday morning. Most shops were still closed, their windows dark. That’s when I saw him - an older man sitting on the cold pavement, wrapped in a worn brown coat. His eyes met mine as I walked past.

“Spare some change?” he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

I stopped and reached into my pocket, feeling the strange shapes of British coins. They still confused me - some were big but worth less than the smaller ones. I pulled out a few and gave them to him.

The coins made a light sound as they landed in his paper cup. He looked at them and then back at me. “Got any more?” he asked. “It’s been a hard morning.”

I felt uncomfortable but also sad. I found a pound coin and handed it to him. “This is all I can give,” I said. His face changed - not happy, not angry, just tired. He nodded and I walked on, thinking about how every city has its own way of showing both kindness and hardship.

The morning air was crisp as I walked through a small park. The grass was wet with dew, and early joggers passed by in colorful clothes. Runners remind me of my wife. No, she wasn’t a runner. She always laughed at my silly jokes. Everytime we saw people running, I used to say “Where are these people trying to rush to?”, and she always laughed. Well, at least smiled…

My stomach started to growl - I needed breakfast.

Finding the Turkish bakery at eight felt like a small miracle. The smell of fresh bread hit me as soon as I opened the door. Simit, the round bread covered in sesame seeds, looked just like it does back home. A small piece of home in this foreign landscape. I ordered one with tea and opened my laptop.

I started writing about this morning. Everything you’ve read so far.

Everything you read so far has happened. Everything you’ll read from now on might.

That’s when Yagmur, who worked at the bakery, came over with an extra tea. “This one’s free,” she said in Turkish, smiling. We talked about home for a while - about which cities we were from, how long we’d been in London, what we missed most about Turkey.

Yağmur means rain in Turkish. “What an ironic name to have in London”, I thought. I wanted to tell this to her but she might not like the joke. Not everyone does. Oh my wife would’ve even giggled at this.

After the bakery, I walked toward the river. The streets were getting busier now. I followed the Thames path, watching tourist boats go by and seeing how the water changed color under different clouds. The walk to Tower Bridge took almost an hour, but I didn’t mind. I stopped to watch street performers and took photos of the old buildings along the river. Taking photos reminded me of my now an old habit of street photography. It’s interesting how hobbies come and go. I’ve always envied people who can stick to a hobby.

Near Tower Bridge, I needed another break and found a small coffee shop. The young barista had blue hair and lots of small tattoos on her arms. “Americano, black please,” I said when she started reaching for the milk. In new coffee shops, I always order Americano - it’s safer than filter coffee, which can be disappointing in London. Oh and always black coffee. I like my coffee and tea just black. I made having coffee and tea as plain as they get a pretty big deal through my twenties, it’s part of my identity now. Back home, I usually drink filter coffee, but finding a good one here is like finding a needle in a haystack. The bitter taste of a properly made Americano helps me think clearly.

The old couple at the next table were sharing a newspaper, pointing things out to each other and whispering. Something about them felt familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The coffee shop’s big windows let me watch people walking by, everyone seeming to have their own little story in this big city. Everyone seems to be in some kind of a rush. Slowing down in a large city is luxury, a luxury I’ve never had until this year. A luxury I’ve always dreamed of.

Then I noticed they were looking at me. Not just casual glances, but intense stares followed by urgent whispers. The woman’s hands trembled as she folded the newspaper to show her companion a specific article. A photo caught my eye - impossible, but I knew that face. My grandfather, young and handsome, standing in what looked like… this exact coffee shop.

The room started to feel strange. The morning light through the windows became warmer, more yellow, like in old photographs. The buzz of modern coffee machines began to fade. When I looked down at my Americano, the modern paper cup had been replaced by a vintage ceramic one.

“It’s time”, the old woman said softly. When I looked up, I saw tears in her eyes. The man - her husband - was smiling gently. They looked so familiar…

That’s when I realized why I’d felt drawn to this particular coffee shop, why my grandfather had always insisted I visit London on this exact date, and why he’d told me endless stories about his time here. On his deathbed last year, he’d made me promise to come to London in October. “You’ll know why when you get there,” he’d said with that mysterious smile I’d never understood.

The old couple stood up, leaving their newspaper behind. As the coffee shop around me continued to shift and change, I caught a glimpse of the headline: “Local Couple Witnesses Impossible Meeting, October 19, 1964.” Below was a photo of the old couple, but younger - much younger. They’d been waiting here for sixty years, just to make sure I found my way.

The room spun gently. Through the changing light, I saw a young man enter the coffee shop - my grandfather, wearing the same clothes I had on today. He ordered a black coffee and sat at my table.

His appearance answered too many questions in my mind, and created a bunch more. The old couple - they’d been the witnesses, the guardians of this moment. As my grandfather smiled at me across the table, I realized this was just the beginning of the story for me.