Inspired by the particularly excellent weather, Lauren Bergstrand and I made a quick start to our Sunday morning. Minutes before, I had sat briefing an article on Brick Lane over my breakfast. Wanting to visit the area, I had soon rationalized my way out of the reading because daylight is precious in a city where the sun has fully set by 5 p.m. A quick Tube ride to Aldgate East put us within easy walking distance of Brick Lane, and we arrived shortly at the ornate green and red archway marking the lane’s entrance. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by the Bangladeshi influence. Dark-skinned men with charismatic smiles stand outside many of their Indian or Bangladeshi restaurants, a trap set to capture idle tourists. Pass by such a man and he will instantly begin negotiating terms of the would-be meal with all the guile of a used car salesman. Escaping this scene, we soon came across a lively and aromatic spot known as the Sunday UP Market. Within this modest warehouse stood many dimly lit tents, beneath which chefs of various ethnicities divided themselves between shouting prices to customers and tending to their grills. Cozy might best describe the scene inside, as one’s body cannot help but remain in constant contact with the rest of the hungry masses. Soon, I parted with my final five pound note over a mysterious concoction at a Chinese booth. In dire need of air and eating space, we maneuvered through of the market and spilled out into the street where other patrons stood eating.
After enjoying the best Chinese dish I’ve ever come across, we continued our stroll further up the Lane. Food here is by no means confined to markets and restaurants. Street vendors of more ethnicities than I can name abounded. Prices are reasonable as well, making this a dream spot for anyone wishing to dabble in exotic cuisine.
As profuse as the eateries are the shops of Brick Lane. Bright colors and interesting designs drew the two of us in, like moths to a bright light, to quite a few of these novelty outlets. Stylish shirts, fuzzy hats, ornate hookahs, original artwork, obscure novels, and, dare I say, Mexican wrestling masks all demand attention from the pedestrian traffic. New items can be found in stores; second or third-hands live on the sidewalks. Being entirely moneyless only slightly dampened my shopping spirit. Lauren emerged the clear winner after haggling for a funny-shaped woolen hat which the street dealer claimed could convert to a scarf.
As we continued our stroll, a clear and striking new theme began to emerge: poverty. Though most of the street had flooded with a mixture of obvious tourists and focused shoppers, the scene on the margins was far more difficult to consider. People, totally different in stature, skin color, sex, and age, all faced the crowds with a similar looks of destitution. Some simply stood watching the day unfold. Others had set before them a meager amount of less-than-desirable possessions they were offering to sell. For others, there seemed no clear determination between what constituted their personal property and what was being offered for sale. Strangely, these difficult conditions seemed less challenging to me and the public when surrounded by music. Small crowds would occasionally form in front of certain individuals or groups who played their instruments. These performers, however, seemed in obvious need of the donations gained through their efforts. One man struck me as a ghost of the iconic Jimi Hendrix, who himself was once extremely poor before, ironically, moving to London where he and fortune first met. This imagery is intrinsic to the identity of Brick Lane. Unlike a mall, which is proportionately equal in respect to food and shops but where the destitute aren’t allowed, Brick Lane maintains its sharper aspects.
For a short while, my mind hand been stuck in regret of a few original artworks I couldn’t afford due to my lack of any cash. Having stood in virtually the same space as men with little more than the cloths they wore, all of my regrets vanished. In a place with so much to offer, looking away from the unpleasant can become an easy habit. To do so in Brick Lane would drastically cheapen the experience. Brick Lane is a place which contains very small bits from a very large number of lifestyles. I can’t claim to understand the feeling of poverty because of this experience. I can’t say that my knowledge of ethnic cuisine has grown tremendously or that my love of art has multiplied. But my experience here has made me think a little more about the food I eat, which so often becomes familiar to the point of exhaustion. I considered many of the people patronizing the shops and markets. Does this place impress them or is it old news? I wondered if workers who run the stores and cook the foods really enjoyed their work or just did it simply to get a paycheck. Perhaps, I wondered most about those who seemed far removed from the mainstream capitalism surrounding them and wished I could know what they thought of while standing along the sides of Brick Lane.
