One of London's best reading spots is literally right beneath your feet. ♦
Reading on the plane, on the train, or even on the bus has always been an activity of contentment for me—pure little-kid enjoyment. With nothing else to worry about, with transportation to your next location out of your hands, this setting has quite a bit to offer as the perfect spot to crack open a good book.
Moving to London for the summer, I wasn’t quite sure where I would find this small space of solace. I would not be riding around in a car very often, and I had to imagine that the London Underground was similar to the New York City Subway—dirty, loud, and crowded. Either way, I didn’t think I would be doing much reading out of personal enjoyment’s sake, as I had a big bundle of class-related readings to complete in the six-week duration of my trip.
However, all of these ponderings, doubts, and assumptions were quite happily turned on their heads once I became settled into London living. I found that the London Underground, called “the tube,” was actually quite clean, efficient, and pleasant. The tube map proved pretty easy to navigate, and I was usually able to get anywhere I could’ve possibly needed to go—even the airport.
If it was rush hour in the mornings or evenings, the tube became just a tad crowded, but never to an uncomfortable or unsafe degree. In these moments, I would usually squeeze myself in between businessmen’s briefcases or tourists’ suitcases, making just enough space for myself to grip the green safety poles of the District Line. But, during the quieter hours of the early afternoon or later evening, this is when I could find a perfect spot on the comfy, felt-covered seats to settle in for the duration of my ride.
These moments—the peaceful, uncluttered, silenced moments—made me feel as though the tube swallowed me whole, not allowing me to think about any of the stressors of above-ground life. Suddenly, I was in a cocoon in which the outside world could not get in. Having no cell service or connection to those on the outside could feel isolating at times, but for the most part, it felt like a small gift from the universe: the perfect moment to catch my breath and open my book of choice. Surprisingly, the tube gave me an opportunity to immerse myself in a newfound, quaint literary culture—one that you could only find if you went underground.
One particular evening, my roommate and I decided to go exploring just to see what we could find. Our adventure began on a classic red, double-decker bus, and it ended with us being at least twelve tube stops away from home at 10 pm. But, not to worry, since we both had brand-new books with us, and this gave us the perfect chance to not have any excuses to do anything but read for pleasure.
And that’s what we did. All the way from Tower Bridge to Earl’s Court, we broke open our new books and silently read—enjoying the solace of the tube, the hushed feeling of public transportation after dark, and the unforced company of two readers forgetting everything except for what’s on the page in front of them.
Except, we were not the only two readers on the tube that night.
In the brief moments that I would look up from my book—such as when the automated tube lady would say “This is a District Line service to Richmond. The next stop is …”—I would pause to observe my surroundings and question what others did on their tube rides at 10 pm. Some people were checked out, lost in their own thoughts, while others were pouring over their newspapers and crossword puzzles. Pleasantly, though, I found that a good number of people had also embarked in literature on their nightly trek back to their flats.
I know that I don’t know these people, nor do they know me, but it certainly felt heartwarming—and cozy, in a way—to see others engaging in the same hobby as I was that evening. It is not often, nowadays, that you see mass numbers of people reading physical books, but when I saw these people, reading across from me on the District Line to Earl’s Court, I could not help but feel as though I was a part of a bigger community of readers.
Whether locals were reading Rupi Kaur’s poetry books or Colleen Hoover’s romances, I felt as though I was connected to complete strangers just by sharing the same activity, in the same place, at the same time.
Reading on the tube felt special, with an aura about it that reading in other places didn't always evoke. Something about having no other commitments or obligations—something about being in a liminal space, untouched by the bustling London overhead—made my personal reading experience enhanced. This literary community, although a little bit out-of-view, is not hard to find for readers who carry a book with them everywhere they go. The tube fosters this community of dedicated readers: those who will take every spare, in-between moment they can get to settle into a good book.
So, for this lovely feeling of being a part of a community of readers bigger than myself, I would like to express my gratitude to London’s public transportation system. I don’t even mind that I almost missed my tube stop that night.
