周夢真

這個(gè)冬天上海沒有下雪，地面上和空氣里依舊是江南特有的濕潤味道。門前的楓葉紅火，路旁的一株桂樹上還掛著零星幾朵黃色小花。往年這時(shí)候，新江灣的復(fù)旦校園里，正對大門的銀杏大道應(yīng)是觀賞落葉的最佳所在。而附近殷行路上的煙火味卻依舊濃郁，常年如此，尤其到了冬日，客人的食欲也比往日好了，糕餅鋪?zhàn)印⑻浅蠢踝?、鹵味小吃的香味鉆進(jìn)鼻子里，還有一碗碗熱豆?jié){入了夜還熱氣騰騰，滯緩了人們匆匆回家的步子。

人們所聚集居住的地方，總有那么多煙火味。我在倫敦留學(xué)的那些日子，也總能感受到異國的那些煙火味。

斯特拉福德（Stratford）是我租住公寓所在的地方，屬東倫敦二區(qū)與三區(qū)交界處，那兒有一個(gè)很大的地鐵站，串聯(lián)起了多條交通線路，地鐵站旁坐落著歐洲第二大商業(yè)中心Westfield，是這座城市少見的大型超市，每日都是熙熙攘攘，不同階層的人都能在此享受到生活的便利。

尤其是地鐵站出來后的廣場，上下班高峰的時(shí)候最是熱鬧，各種膚色的人坐在廣場旁的臺階上停留休息，有的抽著煙，有的拿著一杯剛買好的咖啡，有的不時(shí)拿出手機(jī)與人對話，有的注視著迎面來往的人群，也有的幾人相談甚歡，笑聲蓋過了廣場上的音樂。一些學(xué)校的學(xué)生也會開展調(diào)查問卷，在人群中穿梭采訪，或發(fā)著傳單報(bào)紙。我總是害怕麻煩，會故意快步而行，這也是自小養(yǎng)成的習(xí)慣。

白日里，廣場上也有唱著悠揚(yáng)復(fù)古曲風(fēng)的流浪藝人，白人大叔拉著手風(fēng)琴或是吹著薩克斯，敲擊著不知名的樂器。遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)地，逆著光，一群孩子要去乘地鐵，黑皮膚的、黃皮膚的、白皮膚的，男孩女孩們，都穿著小型熒光色的安全服、背著五顏六色的書包，排著一條長隊(duì)，在冬日的陽光下高聲嬉笑著。陽光斜射，照在不同顏色的瞳孔里，閃著不一樣的光芒。小吃攤正炸著熱狗，滋啦滋啦的聲音伴著令人垂涎欲滴的香味。空氣里裹著各種香料獨(dú)特的味道，酸甜酸甜，又有股子辛辣味。

那個(gè)鋪著席子、毯子睡在垃圾桶旁邊的女乞丐，聞到味道也會起身去和賣熱狗的店主攀談幾句。她是個(gè)五十歲左右的中年白人，遇見這好天氣，便出來沐浴一下陽光?？扇羰怯鲆婈幱晏旌涞臅r(shí)候，便不見了她的蹤影。

到了深夜，燈火格外耀眼地照著，廣場上的黑人小哥們跳著街舞，玩著滑板，嬉笑著，高叫著。一個(gè)黑人女孩唱著聽不懂的饒舌，鼓點(diǎn)刺破耳膜，一閃一閃的交通信號燈恍惚著。還有一堆黑人站在自己搭的高臺上呼喊著，像是在呼吁些什么，廣場上空回蕩著萬千種聲音。

紅磚巷是我記憶深刻的東倫敦一角，也是倫敦最具獨(dú)特藝術(shù)氣息的地方。那兒多元文化集聚，到處可看到涂鴉作品，還有當(dāng)?shù)刈钣忻膹?fù)古二手市場。記得第一次去，我就碰到了一件窘事。那天午后，我獨(dú)自下了白教堂地鐵站，正感嘆著白教堂美術(shù)館建筑之優(yōu)美，這時(shí)候，一個(gè)女人忽然擋住我的去路?！敖o我一點(diǎn)錢吧，女士。”她對我說。她的頭發(fā)是干枯的棕黃色，眼睛凹陷，卻目不轉(zhuǎn)睛地死死盯著我。碰到這種被留學(xué)生圈公認(rèn)的騷擾型乞丐，我們曾被反復(fù)告誡：無須多言，快速離開就好。于是，我就沖她擺擺手，裝作自己身無分文的模樣，準(zhǔn)備繞過她走開。誰知她走上前一步，沖我吼道：“我們都是女人不是嗎！”接著，她又用那不太標(biāo)準(zhǔn)的英文繼續(xù)說道：“雖然你是外國人，但我們都是女人。你聽到了嗎！”她大概是見我未予理會，聲音更加高亢。她的瞳孔微微放大，惡狠狠地瞪著我，臉也不再顯得可憐，甚至有點(diǎn)可惡，似乎下一秒就要朝我撲過來。我快步往前走，到了下一個(gè)紅綠燈口，她追著我并沖我喊各種辱罵的詞語。我深呼一口氣，近乎落荒而逃。

進(jìn)入紅磚巷，我的心依舊撲通撲通跳個(gè)不停，尤其是看到四周的那些涂鴉，暴力的、宣泄的、政治的，整個(gè)墻壁布滿了一個(gè)個(gè)文字和圖案，此刻竟像一群群怪獸，嘶吼著，似乎要破墻而出的模樣。而空氣里又彌漫著一種別樣的味道，弄不清又是哪個(gè)國家的獨(dú)特食物。

An international student in London， I enjoy the fascinating aspects of East London. I live in Stratford， where there is a huge metro station which plays a central role in the subway system of the busy metropolis. Just by the metro station is Westfield London， the second largest shopping mall of Europe. Such a mega business center is also rare in London. The rhythm there is hectic and pedestrians are everywhere， enjoying the conveniences of everyday life.

The huge square by the metro station is where people gather in the morning and afternoon during the peak time. I see people of all colors there. Some hang out on the steps by the square， taking a break， some smoking and some sipping a cup of coffee， some chatting on phone， some looking at people passing by. Laughter may break out here and there. Now and then I see some college students distribute leaflets or interview passersby. I will quicken my steps and avoid these street interviewers whenever I see them coming my way. I have been in this habit since childhood years.

I have many delightful memories of the square. The square is a favorite place for street artists， among them a saxophonist， an accordionist， a percussionist. In another memory， a long queue of children files toward the metro station， wearing safety vests in a shiny fluorescent yellow and carrying satchels on their back， chatting and laughing now and then. A hotdog food stand sends out a strong pleasant smell. As I walk through the square， I can sense spices from restaurants and food stands. A homeless woman in her fifties lives by some trash cans. When its fine， she comes out of her dwelling place and chats with the hotdog operator and basks in the sunshine. When it rains she is nowhere to be seen. Deep into night， the square looks and sounds different. It is a paradise of hip-hop. My impressions of the square are fragmentary： some young people enjoy dancing and skateboard riding; a young girl raps; some people chant slogans on a raised platform in the distance， their loud voices echoing in the air of the square as if there were thousands of voices.

Brick Lane in East London is one of my favorite impressions of East London. It offers the best artistic touch I have ever seen in the region. Diverse cultural influences pulsate. Graffiti are everywhere. The Brick Lane Market is highly attractive.

But I had an unpleasant encounter there. One afternoon， I walked out of the metro station and took a stroll. I was admiring the exquisite fa?ade of the Whitechapel Gallery when I suddenly saw a woman appear in front of me out of nowhere. She tried to beg cash from me， training her eyes on me， her hair blond and dry， her eyes deep-set in the face. I had been advised to avoid street beggars as fast as possible. So I gestured no to her. She didnt back off. Instead， she came closer screaming “Arent we women！” in accented English. “You are a foreigner， but we are women. Do you hear me！” Seeing me ignore her， she screamed louder， her pupils enlarged. I could have died if her eyes had been daggers. She no longer looked pitiful. She looked ferocious and looked as if she was about to charge into me. I quickened my steps. When I reached the traffic lights， she was chasing me， calling me names in a vicious manner. I took a deep breath and fled. My heart pounded for a long while even after I escaped into Brick Lane. The violent， religious， political， and emotional graffiti looked like monsters hollering and trying to break out of the walls. Something in the air gave a poignant smell， suggesting an exotic cuisine unknown to me.