"As we step out of the house on a fine evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers, whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one's own room." Street Haunting, By Virginia Woolf
My mom was my Mrs. Dalloway.
She and I walked through London non stop in 1976. It was not after world war I, like Mrs. Dalloway's walk. It was during the Lebanese civil war, which we had just fled from.
When I read Mrs. Dalloway, I saw it as a love story to London. The streets, the people, the bustle, the noise, the interruptions, the statues, the glamour, the poverty.
There is something about walking through the hustle and bustle of a city that makes you feel alive, makes you feel like you are combatting the slow march towards death that Virginia Woolf was so keenly aware of, that she felt we were all sentenced to.
While some seek the quiet walks of the countryside, I still find walks through cities to be the most invigorating. Almost like a walk by the ocean, with the waves in constant motion. Mrs. Dalloway feels the same. (MDA, 7)
On a recent visit to London, I traced Mrs. Dalloway's path from her house in Victoria to the flower shop in Bond Street. I followed Septimus' path from Bond street, where he heard the same car as Mrs. Dalloway, all the way up Oxford Street, to Regent's park.
I also visited Viriginia Woolf landmarks, where she had lived, and where she and Leonard set up the Hogarth press. Whereas that felt like chasing ghosts, my Mrs. Dalloway walk was more of an ode to life, to the city that she loved, as well as an homage to the woman that walked me through those very same streets, way back in 1976.
My mom is now bed ridden. She no longer travels to London. It takes two strong people to walk her from her bed to her sitting room. But there was a time when she was a tireless walker. And she was nowhere as happy as when she walked the streets of London, escaping the Lebanese heat and the Lebanese unrest.
"How beautiful a London street is then" Street Haunting, by Virginia Woolf
My mom was my Mrs. Dalloway.
She and I walked through London non stop in 1976. It was not after world war I, like Mrs. Dalloway's walk. It was during the Lebanese civil war, which we had just fled from.
When I read Mrs. Dalloway, I saw it as a love story to London. The streets, the people, the bustle, the noise, the interruptions, the statues, the glamour, the poverty.
There is something about walking through the hustle and bustle of a city that makes you feel alive, makes you feel like you are combatting the slow march towards death that Virginia Woolf was so keenly aware of, that she felt we were all sentenced to.
While some seek the quiet walks of the countryside, I still find walks through cities to be the most invigorating. Almost like a walk by the ocean, with the waves in constant motion. Mrs. Dalloway feels the same. (MDA, 7)
On a recent visit to London, I traced Mrs. Dalloway's path from her house in Victoria to the flower shop in Bond Street. I followed Septimus' path from Bond street, where he heard the same car as Mrs. Dalloway, all the way up Oxford Street, to Regent's park.
I also visited Viriginia Woolf landmarks, where she had lived, and where she and Leonard set up the Hogarth press. Whereas that felt like chasing ghosts, my Mrs. Dalloway walk was more of an ode to life, to the city that she loved, as well as an homage to the woman that walked me through those very same streets, way back in 1976.
My mom is now bed ridden. She no longer travels to London. It takes two strong people to walk her from her bed to her sitting room. But there was a time when she was a tireless walker. And she was nowhere as happy as when she walked the streets of London, escaping the Lebanese heat and the Lebanese unrest.
"How beautiful a London street is then" Street Haunting, by Virginia Woolf
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