When I lived in London I found myself, very often, sleeping in the beds of strangers. This was an unusual situation for me. I am a difficult and restless sleeper. I talk in my sleep. I twitch and move. I have vivid dreams that sometimes bleed over into waking reality. And, given all this, it is my general preference to sleep alone.
In London this isn’t always an option, particularly when – enervated by the energy of a new and exciting city – you indulge in a great many hook-ups, one-night-stands and brief but intense love affairs with people you barely know.
The scale of London means that getting home at 03:00 in the morning isn’t always an option… or, at least, it wasn’t when I lived there. Uber wasn’t yet a thing. On a Saturday night the wait for a cab would be measurable in hours. The Night Tube didn’t yet exist, and the network of night buses would take the entire night to get me anywhere even close to where I wanted to be.
So, for the time that I lived in London at least, I learned to sleep alongside strangers. And it was odd and wonderful. The little intimacies of it fascinated me. To see someone’s bedtime routine. To let them see mine. To borrow a toothbrush. To lie beside them as they slept. To hear them snoring, or feel them twitching, or hear them murmuring in their sleep.
And, in the morning, to see them in a new light: without makeup, hungover and quiet. To share breakfast with them before heading off into our respective days. To laugh, gently, about the foolish and passionate activities of the night before.
Many of these people I never saw again. Some I did. But what is interesting to me is that London – the scale and the difficulty of it – had a bearing on our connection. It forced a certain intimacy. It required a certain defencelessness. My place of comfort was to sleep alone… but London didn’t always allow that. It forced me learn the patience and politeness and consideration and care that is required to sleep alongside a stranger. And though it was difficult at the time, I think that can only be a good thing.
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London is amazing, and you’ve very eloquently pointed out its charm. It is spread out so far but makes people seem closer. Perhaps that the shoulder to shoulder atmosphere at any event…. Odd but true
I got a little sense of that while I was living there. It feels almost like people are united by the scale they have to deal with.
I live outside London, but what you describe is definitely what I see when I visit.
Sharing a bed with strangers definitely requires co-operation which you described really vividly.
Co-operation is a very good way of describing it!
It’s interesting when you read someone else’s words, you suddenly realize something about yourself you have never before thought about. I am uncomfortable being around strangers, let alone share their bed with them, but in the times I did (many, many years ago), it indeed was special to see their routines, and waking up with them. A strange kind of intimacy, never to be repeated with the same person. Mostly not. Great post, and just for the record, I LOVE London!
~ Marie xox
I know what you mean. For me, being uncomfortable around someone is a kind of intimacy in and of itself. A difficult one, but certainly worth the difficulty.
Oh – and I should say, despite all its difficulty, I love London too.
I wonder how many people do this now with taxi’s and public transport being much more accessable in unsociable hours ? Great to read about your experience.
lilly
I’ve wondered about this too. If Uber was a thing back when I lived in London there are a lot of interesting experiences I might have missed out on.
I loved this and you captured that next morning with a one-night stand – so well
Thank you. The next morning is always an interesting time!
That took me back – it was a different time and waking up in East Finchley remains one of the strangest mornings of my life – Many of these people I never saw again. Some I did” – and sometimes it was in unexpected places like an office meeting room and you both tried to pretend you’d never met!
A familiar pain. The world’s a small place, so you never know when you’re going to run into someone you once spent the night with.