On a cold, sunny morning we happily ambled up and down narrow, winding, ancient streets with wonderful names: Nunnery Lane, Micklegate, Low Petergate, Pavement, The Shambles, and suchlike. We exclaimed over the ancient cobblestone paving, medieval buildings and intriguing little shops, and noted quite a few -mostly British- tourists, even this early in the season. (What would York be like in summer? Crammed beyond capacity, I think. Unlike some towns in Britain, this one is thriving.)
Then we came upon a fascinating, unique street performer.
Before I go on, though, indulge me a minute.
Imagine a large vat that a full-grown man could stand upright in. Picture a sturdy winch suspended above it, with a rope dangling off its tip. Finally, imagine a sixty-something man, dressed in normal British cycle-to-the-village-grocery clothing, carefully winching himself into the vat.
Here’s the thing: it’s filled with luscious purple paint, certainly made from a concoction that’s friendly to humans. The color’s one I could wear happily. Some of my ornamental onions are exactly that shade.
Anyway, imagine this fellow carefully lowering himself into it while holding his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. He submerges. After a tiny pause he winches himself out. The result: From his shoe soles to the top of his capped head, our Brit is a deep purple.
One more detail. Monochrome Man secures the rope- a vivid purple now, of course- to the front tire of his beautifully appointed bike. He lowers it into the vat. There’s a fractional pause. He winches it out, then arranges them both, rather like sozzled cormorants after a dive, to dry out in the weak April sun.
Doesn’t this sound likely?
Here’s the part I haven’t quite worked out.
Somehow- Ping! – man and machine were simply there, smack in the middle of Swinegate Street. How had it been managed? One minute chatting tourists filled the street, with bagged purchases banging their legs, while their children skipped ahead, and then, when I looked again a few minutes later, there he was, collecting a small crowd as he perched on his bicycle, which sat on a purple stand. His face was devoid of expression, and he didn’t speak.
It’s really hard to be expressionless. Try it. Ask someone to chat you up. You might furrow your brow, or wiggle your eyebrows; your mouth could twitch. Your Adam’s apple might bounce a bit.
Not a muscle moved here, save the eyes in his head.
I dunno… Brits aren’t exactly famous for their cuisine, but they can effortlessly command attention in other incredibly creative, fascinating ways, if it suits them…
Moving very slowly, he shifted his purple cap. I peered. Yup. Purple hair under there.
And even hairy purple ears.
How would his wife react when he pedaled home for tea?
When he felt like it, he’d assume the cycling pose, with purple coattails and neck scarf obligingly frozen into flying position. Strollers would notice this peculiar statue in the middle of the street, and exclaim, not realizing at first that he was the real deal. They’d take photos, but not touch. (The British are more reserved, that way. Not like some Europeans, for instance, who love to grab and cheek-kiss, twice.)
Choosing the moment, that living statue would ‘come alive,’ languidly shift position, or actually dismount and look thoughtfully busy as he fiddled with his steel steed. His reward was quite satisfactory. Exclamations. Cheers. Giggles. Especially from astounded small children.
Oh- and you could toss a penny, or a pound, into a purple pot…or not…
Another thing: ‘The Shambles,’ which we discovered next just one street over, is a beautifully preserved, incredibly appealing, narrow, winding medieval street straight out of Harry Potter’s world, with tiny shops featuring jewelry, sweets, restaurants, a bookshop, and other delights. It leans, but then, the street is 600 years old. No wonder Google awarded it ‘Most Picturesque Street in Britain’ in 2010!
Delight yourself: type in ‘The Shambles-York’ on Google.
That’s not a painting. That’s the street at Christmas. Move down it virtually, and peek into runny glass windows.
Stuff like this enchants me.
Finally, every morning we’d stare in delighted disbelief at a huge, ornate sign that covers an entire side of a big brick building just across the street. It read:
Nightly BILE BEANS keep you
HEALTHY, BRIGHT-EYED & SLIM
Brits! I love ‘em!