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 it’s 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 façade 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 didn’t back off. Instead, she came closer screaming “Aren’t 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.