The simplicity of being a foreigner

I came to London in 2013 from a tiny village in the North of Italy. My first English home was an old Victorian house in Kensal Green, a lovely residential area in the city's North West. In 1890, it was part of a long lane connected to Kensington Gravel Pits called Green's Lane, where Notting Hill Gate is now. Kensal Green is also famous for its cemetery, which opened in 1833 and was inspired by the larger cemetery in Paris, the "Père Lachaise Cemetery". I always found the French influence fascinating, especially as it is one of the "Magnificent Seven cemeteries in London". All of them were built in the 19th century close to the City borders to avoid overcrowding the centre.

Nine years later, I decided to walk from Notting Hill Gate to Ladbroke Grove, revisiting this familiar path that I once saw every day. It is one of those rare sunny days in London, and even if summer appears to come early this year, an airstream could change everything. I walk through Pembridge Road and leave behind the "Prince Albert" pub, now so blended in this English quarter that no one thinks of the German origins of the actual Prince consort of Queen Victoria. I see the "Ye Olde Green Hut", one of the green cabins scattered around London, perfect for an overly familiar espresso. These cabins are also known as "Cabmen's Shelter". In 1875 by law, taxi drivers could not leave their cab-stand while their car was parked there. Therefore, they could not get food and drink without risking a fine or their cab being stolen. Editor George Armstrong set up a charity with the Earl of Shaftesbury to build shelters in central cab-stands around the city.

I immerse myself in the crowd of people who navigate the street and pass by the "Sun in Splendour", this corner pub painted in canary yellow that shouts "Fresh poured Guinness" on the outside A-boards. The colours of the famous houses immediately catch my eye, with the plaque of George Orwell on one of them, which seems to whisper his "Moon Under Water" essay on pubs, while I leave behind so many. The sense of walking Portobello Road, where millions of people, including famous ones, stepped where I am now, always gets me. Every Saturday morning when the market is up, it is a crazy experience with thousands of people shouting and moving between stands.

The scent of fresh bakery and brewed coffees come from the corners cafes. The "Farm Girl" restaurant is hidden deep inside a porch that can be spotted immediately by the long queue of people impatient to eat their expensive, healthy breakfast. The chefs are starting to prepare their kitchens as it will be soon time to open their doors to hungry customers. It is a classic ritual if you live in the area or come specifically for it.

Deep down in the market, the lively and crispy colours of fresh fruit and vegetables grab my attention, and its variety looks like a bright colour palette ready for use. But the expectant aroma of citrus from the radiant oranges does not come my way. In its place, the scent of leather hanging between the stands slips uncomfortably into my nostrils. The fox furs used for clothing are so common in this area.

The crowd bumps into each other with no apology or regret, queuing at the familiar stands with streets food of any kind. It is like an explosion of cultures that do not have borders.

The fisherman shouts to whom is willing to listen, but people seem to know better. The antiquary shops that have made this street famous since the late 1940s are spread from Chepstow Villas to Elgin Crescent. They open their doors to curious faces entering with wonder and leaving with lighter pockets. Collectors find their treasures in second-hand gems and antiques. However, even the regular tourist has a chance to admire everything from vintage books, fine arts, collectables from different eras and jewellery of every style.

Walking along the way, I am embraced be the familiar scent of pizza and Italian countryside. An orange 500 Fiat car looks ready to jump from the Italian restaurant's window, "Arancina". They have so many delicious delicacies that feel like a nostalgic tradition left behind, but here pizza and arancini are a must! At the same time, I look around the vast souvenir shops enriched with vinyl and famous faces looking down, exposed to catch tourists' attention.

Almost drifting away in the crowd, I walk the crammed street to the corner between Portobello Road and Blenheim Crescent. "Mr Portobello" breaks the fashion rules with its display window and vintage dresses on sassy mannequins. I walk another block looking for the blue door where every tourist coming from all around the world wants to take a picture. However, the actual door is just a memory in a '90s movie as it was sold long ago. In its place, there is just a replica.

There is a feeling of belonging that embraces you when right in the middle of the market, throwing you inside this festival of colours. Even if you may feel like an outsider, you will get caught up in the market's multicultural vibes.

Outside the blue door, a pub called "The Castle" has stained black walls, empty beer glasses on the shelves, and a regular girl refilling her glass on an outside bench. It sits on the corner between Portobello Road and Westbourne Road. A familiar place where I often came when living in the area. I remember thinking, in my naivety, that there was no better place to learn English, as it seemed the only site where I could understand and speak with no fear. As soon as I walk in, the darkness of its stained windows shields my eyes from the outside world. I pass my hand on the wooden counter, feeling its deep scratches and the stickiness of old drinks. Pints and whiskey are floating, burning and easing the customers' thirst.

As soon as I pass the counter, I can hear the stories of "Johnny Six-hundred" echoing in the pub from one of the corner tables. Stories filled with dreams lived behind the wheel of cars that gave him his name.

"Hi Johnny, how are you today?" I say, sitting on one of the empty chairs. "Tom, how are you doing?" acknowledging his pal in this pub.

"Hey, Eleanor" (he cannot pronounce my name correctly, but it is all right). "I was telling Tom about my days behind the wheels".

Tom never speaks. No one knows why. Someone said he got traumatized when he was younger, and others said he never spoke. However, he is a good listener.

"I came in the right moment then." It is still sunny outside, but "The Castle" is already full of people preparing for the night approaching, or maybe the afternoon has already blended with the night.

Time was flying, listening to Johnny's adventures as a young Irish man coming to London in the 60s. When he first arrived, being from Ireland did not help, and he had to scrub any job he could to survive. One of those was sitting at the red lights counting the cars queuing, and another was driving to a depot the vehicles parked in the "no parking" places. Moreover, as the legend goes, he has driven more than six hundred cars, which is why everyone calls him "Johnny Six-hundred".

As the beers and whiskeys flow, his Irish overcomes his English, and I lose connection with the topic. When I first met him, I remember struggling to understand a word of English, and he was patient enough to explain everything he was saying. Even though I still could not get a word sometimes. He also used to tell me when I could not express myself well enough: "A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse".

The night filled the pub, and a band positioned their instrument, ready for the show to begin. The voice of "Hey-Zeus" fills all the space in the room, with occasional dancers starting to feel the rhythm they may have come for. Before you know it, the floor is roaring, and the tables are shaking. Another scenario is projected in front of my eyes, where everyone's euphoria grows with the drinks and the music's volume.

It is time for me to leave, and I am again out on Portobello Road, looking at a street that seems different from the one I was walking on this morning. No more stands, just the rest of the market left at the corners of the street. No more shouting, no more colours, no more crowd pushing around. Just me and a few other people walking in the silence of the night. No cars are passing, and no buses are allowed in this area. Ambulances or police cars' sirens break this almost unnatural stillness from one of the parallels. I need to walk back to Notting Hill Gate to get to the bus that will take me home.

Far is the day when I did not know these streets. Far is the day when I did not consider them home. Nevertheless, am I still considered a foreigner?