Oxford Street: From My Perspective - Essay Example

Kamran Harris English 8 December 2007 Oxford Street: From My Perspective I would hold herhand as we'd make our way through the crowded Oxford Street in London. To put it simply, I felt happy. My grandmother was the best friend I ever had, right from my very childhood, and touring our favorite hangout together like this was something I looked forward to every year. It was our little alone time; our little vacation. Although it isn't the most quiet or peaceful place, and although all in all she was the one in the saddle, as we'd go to all the shops and eateries and places that she liked to visit, we would have never had it otherwise. We haunted Oxford Street, literally haunted it, every year before Christmas, mostly somewhere in the first two weeks of December, as soon as I could take time off. It was our routine to spend three days together, shopping for Christmas, buying gifts, treating each other, and generally having a blast. The usually congested Street is even more packed in those days before winter holidays, as everyone is stocking for Christmas, and mostly shopping their heads off. No wonder then that the two-mile long Oxford Street claims to be the busiest street in Europe; at least the busiest shopping strip. I am always amazed at how many people can fit into the place and move around, while still more pour into it. But the crowd is an integral part of the strip, it wouldn't do to have it otherwise. Especially as my grandmother had a keen interest in people watching. She would look around with her keen eyes at all the people bustling around, talking with each other, chatting away on cell phones, bags in hands, eyes on the shop windows, looking in to see what new dresses or ties or perfumes or home wares were on stalls, and laugh good-humoredly to herself, which would set my mood off on a good note, and hand in hand, we would mingle in with the others. Soon, keeping the tradition alive, we would also have our fair share of bags, with store ensembles and logos proudly displaying our little ventures. Our first stop, always, was Selfridges. I didn't exactly know why, but every time we reached it, we both would involuntarily stop in front of its grand exterior and absorb it all in, silently gazing at it with sparkling eyes and awing at its imposing faade. Maybe it reminded her of strength and youth and opportunities, while I would just marvel at my luck for being her partner in crime. The reason is not important. The tradition is. And we would hold true to it. The seven floors of fashion and cosmetics was, frankly, of little attraction to us, as she was too elegant for the funky fashion they offer, and I, too reserved. But that is not to say we didn't like it in there; some window shopping doesn't hurt. Just for the sake of it, she would check out different shades of a particular brand of lipsticks, and although we've been there so many times, she would do that nevertheless. While she would go through the heaps of shades displayed at the multistoried racks and counters, I would stand and sniff in the gamut of perfume scents that hang in the vicinity so thick and rich and permanent like a painting, commingled so intricately that it is quite impossible to tell one from the other, and yet more whiffs constantly being added to the amalgamation as more bottles are opened and sprayed and checked. And then I would feel as if I was transported to some exotic fashion week in Paris or Milan. But the restaurants, that was another story. We raided them to the most we could, and by now I have eaten in all of the nineteen restaurants and have simply fallen in love with the food mall with its sumptuous dishes and mouth-watering aroma. The area between Oxford Circus and Marble Arch is stuffed with boutiques and department stores and all sorts of shops and businesses that one can imagine. These being more within our price range, we used to spend the better half of our time there. Whether it be the continental dress houses or the hip designer boutiques in the nearby Bond Street, shopping prevails, though we used to stick to the former. Mango and Zara were my grandmother's personal favorites. She used to say there is something about oriental stitching techniques that she just cannot find in the designer products of Versace or Chanel. Maybe the dresses there smelled of her trip to Asia thirty years back, and of the clothes and jewelry she brought back. In Zara we used to linger a little longer. Be it the polite attendees or the soft melodious music riding the air waves or the glib scent of freshness and mystery as if opening doors to some ancient civilization of lost times somewhere far off in Asia, we would feel ourselves magnetically attracted to the outlet. The clothes there being more affordable, and my grandma having a leaning towards the magic of the Himalayas and beyond, many a dress in her closet hail from the pertinent boutique. She said whatever we needed, Oxford Street provided it all. No wonder then that we would rush back to it every year, full of hopes and excitement. My secret attraction, however, was New Look, and recently, it's trendy new flagshop. Perhaps clothes, food and music define a person's age, for here and there specked in between the throngs of teenagers crashing on the shop, I could make out a few grownups too, secretly rifling through the aisles of hanged dresses and admiring the energy and the youth hidden in the designs, and then even they would look like young teenagers trying to make a statement with hip dressing. Oxford Street does seem to have a mystic capability of offering something for everyone, and catering to all moods and tastes. I say that because I have witnessed it. The nearby Hyde Park, for instance, is a haven for some quiet musing and pondering if one whishes to so partake of its serenity. What that place reminds me of is very rustic and warm; my childhood with its loving memories and laughter echoing through the corridors of my hazy yesteryears. Every time we used to walk over its soft, green grass and heard the chirping of birds as opposed to the incessant chitter-chatter of the multitudes of people clogging the Street, my heart used to relapse into a serene enclave. We would choose the bench to the far east side of the park, just a few yards away from the lively hotdog salesman and his busy cart. The smell of fresh sausages and mustard flowing with the soft breeze stimulated a little kid inside me, and not being able to curb it any longer, I would jump up and get ourselves a plentiful supply of those magical meals, and was always beaten by my grandma in our race of who-will-finish-them-first. And it was right there on that bench, with the branches of an old chestnut tree gently stooping above our heads, that my grandma narrated to me many a tale of my childhood, and what pranks and antics I was always up to then. Through her I got to know how much time I used to spend in her lap, playing with my toys and giving her not a minute's worth of rest. She was my best friend even then. St Christopher's Place, with its welcoming enclave of terraced cafes, is flanked by boutiques that, too, attract attention. Many times I would sit my grandma in one of the cafes after she was tired out of her tour, and would go off alone for a round of the Park, to feel once again what it was to lose oneself in memories and thoughts. It is a cheerful place, is St Christopher's. We would indulge our taste buds while I would join her in the great art of people watching, which as it turned out, is quite fun. Speaking of art, the private Wallace Collection of art is but a small walk away, and we would often take this walk as part of our pilgrimage to our favorite Street in town. What amazed me the most every time was the sudden change in the mood of my ambience. As soon as we entered the place, a certain sobriety welcomed us. Gone was the festive nature of the Street without, gone was the crowd. This was a reserved place, for reserved people with a reserved atmosphere. Somber looking people pouring over the art pieces is in stark contrast with the bubbling and bustling crowd in the vicinity of, say, Marks & Spencer's in the heart of the Street. And the Wigmore concert Hall is no different, and it, too, bears testimony to many of our visits, emotions and moods. As the time approaches this year, I feel hesitant. I wonder if I should go at all. My grandma passed away this April, and suddenly I feel empty. What if the Oxford Street with its life and colors and fantasies would erode the void further I dare not try and find out. The buildings would be the same, the vibrancy, no different. The shops would be just as crowded, the crowd just as excited. The bags would flash logos and ensembles just as proudly, albeit not in my grandma's hands. The 300 businesses would be thriving just as well, the scents and aromas just as thick and rich and enticing. Many people would be the same_ unsuspecting mates of our shopping sprees of all these years, many would be newbies. People may come and go, but Oxford Street will still be Oxford Street. I wonder if this year the Street would notice its missing lover. I hope it does. Works Cited Streetsensation. 2007. Oxford Street. 10 December 2007 VisitBritain. 2007. Oxford Street. 10 December 2007 < http://www.visitbritain.com/en/destinations/england/london/oxford-street.aspx> Read More