The direction of traffic, how doors are hinged, and even the way electrical switches turn on or off are all diametrically opposed to what I have come to expect since birth. Yet I must cross the street, open doors, and turn on lights and gadgets dozens of times per day. If I operate unconsciously for even a moment, I get a shock.  But this is only the beginning. It gets, as Alice would say, “curiouser and curiouser.”

Because London predates the advent of city planning, it has grown up organically. Instead of the long grids of streets I would use to orient myself in America, short squiggles of road intersect roundabouts at all angles of the clock face. Anyone who has studied the difference between Cartesian and polar coordinate systems, and calculated conversions between the two, can appreciate the difficulty involved. Navigating London, it feels as though my brain is performing these transpositions constantly. Coupled with the lack of filters about what to ignore, my analytical mind quickly becomes exhausted.

The American journalist James Geary described London as “a labyrinth, full of turnings and twistings just like a brain.” I have discovered that it is a right brain. Just a few buildings away from my new office is the site where William Blake was born. He lamented the “chartering” of streets and rivers in London as analogous to Victorian repression, and held up the figure of Newton as representing materialism and science at the expense of his great loves, imagination and art.

He might be happy to see that, in modern London, so much is still subject to interpretation, imagination, fancy, and whim. In an overcrowded city that long predates the automobile, “making do” and “getting on with it” override the authority of pedestrian crossings and painted lines. Because the roads are not aligned with cardinal directions, street corners are a useless marker, and so instead short segments of continuous road are given different names as they go along. This results in a colorful panoply of street names, even when traveling (relatively) straight. One memorizes various sequences of such streets to get from point to point. With names like “Crooked Usage” and “Buttery Mews,” the results of these mnemonic gymnastics can play out with all of the delight of a memorized poem.

And so, even as my logistical circuitry is being continually overloaded, my creativity is being fed by this great-right-brain of a city. My mantra has become: not wrong, just different. Repeating this, I push (not pull) open the door each day, and set out to learn a bit more.

“… now there was a match-head in my thoughts.”

I have been in London for one week. On my previous three visits, I never stayed for more than two weeks, and often split the time with other parts of England or other countries in Europe. But this time, I am here to settle. My new job starts tomorrow.

And so, I see everything, not through the eyes of a tourist, but those of an immigrant. Instead of laughing at quaint cultural differences, I take note for future reference. When I discover that the way I have been doing things in my homeland for decades, and which I assumed to be universal, works completely differently out here, I have to figure out the new way and adapt.

Walking along the Thames last night, I felt a sense of connection to other immigrants I met. Some may have fled despotic regimes, others no doubt came to seek their fortunes. For many, English is not their first language (and I am discovering it is actually not mine either!) Few leave their families lightly. And abandoning the cumulative comfort of so many small known quantities has led me to feel like an infant here at times, re-learning fundamentals of language and behavior/behaviour.

After a week of apartment-hunting, bank account setup, and other logistics required to survive abroad, an outing in Brighton yesterday with my new colleagues let me see things as a tourist again, instead of just an immigrant. Returning to the Thames that night rekindled the “match-head” that was placed in my thoughts many years ago, when I first encountered London, and found it at once imposing and familiar, both a great city, and one I could call my own.

The following poem received an honorable mention in the 2008 Rattle Poetry Prize, and appeared in Rattle #30 in the winter of that year. While the text and an audio recording of me reading this poem are available on the Rattle website, this is the first time me reading this poem has appeared in a video. Special thanks to Charles McDonald for filming that night.

The simplified tale of this poem’s creation is that I wrote it almost entirely in one sitting. But the more complete story is that it actually represents a kind of revision of several previous, less successful attempts at writing about my experience growing up on the U.S.-Mexico border.

I had seen the immigrant crossing sign numerous times during trips through San Diego. But it was not until I began to explain the significance of the sign to my wife, an Englishwoman, that I realized its symbolic power. My explanation of the human circumstances behind the sign and its necessity left her in tears. Sometime later, this poem came into focus on the page. Enjoy.