A Travelogue from London

London is calling. The tickets, pinned on the mosaic board next to my desk. Times and places to meet friends, scribbled in my travel diary, together with a phone-when-all-goes-wrong number. Just in case. The only thing missing: some last minute hints from those who have been there lately. I log into my favourite Internet hangout, answer the question of the day, drop some of my two pence pieces of wisdom, and start a travel thread, 'London for three days, any advice on where to go and what to see apart from the usual sights appreciated, post here or mail me. JuneMoon.'

One page further, I run into the counterpart of my virtual inquiry. A 'Restless' soul, trapped there in London without any travel options for the coming months, and with an off day in the middle of the week. 'Will be sitting on the stairs in front of Tate, next to Millennium Bridge, from 2 to 3 this afternoon. Identification sign: Lonely Planet Africa. Any traveller around, meet up there if you want.'

These lines, they paint a picture in my imagination. There is me, sitting on stones, pretending to read while I wait, wait for someone to cross the line of anonymity, to say hello, to talk to me instead of passing me by, eyes fixed on a distant spot. There is me, biting my lips, taking a sip of water, trying to swallow down the fear that the one who stops in front of me to check his mobile actually only checks me out, to decide if I am worth talking to. There is me, telling myself to not turn myself into a public fool again.

The painting is still hanging on the walls of my mind the next day, drawn in clearer lines than my own travel plans. I log into the forum again, to get a glimpse of the latest net gossip, to see if there are some replies to my question, but most of all: to see if there is a follow-up story from Restless. There is. She has done it, has sat there for an hour. And my mind painting got the scene right. No one has shown up. She has sat there, waiting, and nothing has happened. No chance meeting, not even a smile from another solitary stair sitter.

It feels plain wrong. Someone having the courage to do this, and do it double, in a public forum, and in a public place, and then nothing coming of it. In a movie, this would never happen. In the movie, the timing would be right; the scene would have been a different one. Full view of the skyline, ships passing, a couple walking by. Close up, Restless on the stairs, holding the dream of Africa in her hand. Then change of viewpoint, the scene seen from her place. A guy with a jungle T-shirt, staring at her for a moment, then walking on. A woman in tank top and mini skirt, peeking at her book. Change of viewpoint again. Someone who could be the younger brother of the guy in the CK posters, walking along. It's him, the audience knows it already. She doesn't know yet. Camera zooming in, background music: violins playing.

Or something like this, I think, while I try to skip my own fears of being rejected. Nothing to lose but pride, I tell myself, and write a mail to Restless, telling her about my planned trip to London and offering, or rather, inviting, or even more appropriate, suggesting to meet up. How about Friday at 3, at the Tate Modern? I ask, and as if it was meant to happen, she has the morning shift that day, and free time in the afternoon.

The evening before I leave on my trip, I get in touch with Restless again, all excited about the upcoming trip, the prospect to be there the next day already, to see Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square, Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, Covent Garden and Hyde Park, and to start this journey with the meeting of a stranger. Not strangers, just friends not met yet, she writes back.

With those words of wisdom wrapped up carefully in my backpack, I board the plane. Two hours later, I am there. Walking down the streets of London, minding the gap between platform and station, trying to find my way. Subway London Bridge. Now to the right side, there should be the Thames. But all there is are streets. No bridge, no river. I consult my map. It tells me to head towards the East. Three streets later, I am at the waterfront. The city is unfolding on the other side, I walk along while the views are shifting.

Tate greets me from afar with two giant black rubber figures, and the advice how to treat this kind of art: Don't bounce on the sculptures. The next surprise sign waits at the museum's door. Free Entry, it says. I can't believe it. Cautiously I walk in. It is real. And huge. Floors and floors, connected by stairways and escalators that open to a ground floor of abstract stone statues, to a ceiling of metal girders and window garlands, to a permanent exhibition floor.

Open entrances to the right, to the middle, to the left. Abundance of art. White walls, waiting. Spaces and colours unfolding behind corners. The first painting I meet: 'The soul of the soulless city.' Empty train lines running through the heart of a town. A scene void of human schemes. I stand in front of it, sinking into the darkness, unaware of the sight, of the light waiting behind me already. Monet's Waterlilies. A whole wall of it, brought upon by one single painting. I fall for it the moment I see it. No more I need, only this. Only them.

A bench carries me while I sail across this moving water surface. I had seen pictures of them before, but I had no idea of the hugeness, of the depth. A whole world, gold framed, pastel scented. Impressions that leave imprints. Moments that turn to memories.

At peace, I wake up from the water reflections, just in time to leave, to meet Restless. This time I take the stairs, step by step. Passing series of instant art cut into frames, I try to recall the pyramid of prepared phrases to say. It isn't present any more, it feels like it has dissolved somewhere between the white lily leaves. After meeting Monet on a museum wall, meeting another traveller on the ground floor seems as simple as coloured squares on canvas ground.

The only question now, how to recognize Restless. The answer comes on the way. A beep, my mobile. Restless telling me the key to our meeting in Bond style. Arrived at the Tate. Main entrance. Green skirt.

The moment I see her, she waves hello at me. Surprised by the simultaneous reaction, I skip the conventions.

Hi stranger, I say.

Hi friend, she answers.

A scene like out of a movie, only better, as it is unplanned, unscripted, uncut.

Still under the spell of the water lilies, I ask if she had seen them yet, if we shall go there together.

Restless smiles. She knows them. Actually I sneaked a picture of them the last time I was here, she confesses.

You send it to me when I am back?

I will, she promises. Now how about some sitting on stone steps?

It could have been my idea.

We walk towards the exit. We could have an ice cream, I suggest, already thinking in terms of us, not in terms of me. This line of distance, at some times thick as fog, hard as brick; here, at this time, at this place, it simply faded away, dissolving into space.

On the way out, I wave goodbye to the water lilies, unsure still what their part in the storyline was; yet knowing already that I will return.