Essay : A strange passer-by at Holland Park Youth Hostel

 

Even now, when I look back on it, it was a most peculiar encounter. It happened nearly 40 years ago.

 

To call it an "encounter" may be overstating it, as I merely caught fleeting glimpses of the man in two different places. Yet, to this day, it remains a mystery that lingers in my mind.

 

In the early 1990s, I travelled to the United Kingdom for a year-long university exchange programme. A friend who had helped me arrange my plane tickets and Eurail pass accompanied me on the journey.

 

We flew with Aeroflot Airlines. After an overnight stay in Moscow, we set off for Heathrow Airport. Upon arriving at Heathrow, we boarded the Piccadilly Line underground train and headed towards our destination—a youth hostel nestled within Holland Park, right in the heart of the city.

 

It was late summer, and the park itself was alive with the sounds of music festivals. Simply staying there, one could enjoy operatic performances and concerts wafting through the air.

 

The hostel was an impressive structure, an old and substantial stone building that had been renovated to accommodate travellers. The premises were divided into two wings—one for men and one for women. We were assigned to a dormitory room, a shared space designed to house about ten people in bunk beds.

 

Upon checking in at the youth hostel, the receptionist said something rather unexpected to me:

 

"There was someone who came to see you."

 

The only person who came to mind was a friend of mine who had also come to London for a study programme around the same time.

 

"Was it a girl with a bob haircut?" I asked.

 

The receptionist shook her head.

 

Apart from that friend, I couldn’t think of anyone who might know I was there. I tried describing someone else, a vague possibility I’d conjured based on hearsay.

 

"Was it a tall man with blond hair, slightly balding?"

 

Again, the receptionist shook her head.

 

 

Although summer in England was drawing to a close, the days remained remarkably long. After we arrived and set down our belongings, we went out to a nearby supermarket to pick up some drinks and light snacks. Accompanying us were a few people we had only just befriended—fellow guests from our shared dormitory at the youth hostel.

 

By the time we returned to the hostel that evening, the receptionist spoke to me again.

 

"The same man came to see you after you left."

 

By now, I was beginning to feel uneasy. I glanced around the courtyard, but there was no one I recognised.

 

We carried our shopping bags to the room, then took our newly purchased drinks to a table and chairs in the courtyard. Sitting there, we started chatting.

 

Suddenly, one of my friends exclaimed loudly.

 

"Anna, that man—he’s staring at you with such an intense look!"

 

I turned around quickly, but there was no one visibly watching me. I couldn’t tell who it might have been.

 

We resumed our conversation, yet my friend insisted again that someone was staring at me.

 

This time, I let my eyes wander discreetly across the courtyard. It was then that I noticed a man with brown hair sitting on the edge of a table, some distance away.

 

For reasons I still cannot explain, French words came to mind at that moment. I had never formally studied French at university, only dabbled in it on my own. Yet, I felt an irresistible urge to utter three specific phrases.

 

"Bonsoir, monsieur."

"Vous allez bien ?"

"Vous habitez ici ?"

 

However, the man immediately turned his face away, making it unmistakably clear with his entire body that he wanted nothing to do with me. His rejection was so deliberate that I lost any inclination to speak further.

 

Perhaps he simply didn’t want to engage with a foreigner, I thought to myself.

 

The youth hostel was filled with travellers from all over the world. Encounters were usually natural—eye contact would lead to a conversation, and friendships formed easily. But this man, the one who averted his gaze so pointedly, seemed determined to shut me out entirely.

 

To this day, I don’t understand why those particular French words surfaced in my mind, or why they felt so urgent to say. What remains clear, though, is that in that moment, those three phrases were all I could think of.

 

 

 

After spending two nights at Holland Park, my friend and I moved to another youth hostel, this one located slightly to the east of the city, with convenient access to Euston Station. Tomorrow, we would board a train heading to the north-west, where my study-abroad programme was set to begin.

 

The train journey itself took about four hours, though the time passed quickly. We chatted, nibbled on the snacks and apples we’d brought along, and before we knew it, we had reached our destination.

 

The station, with its old-world charm, resembled an idyllic English station stop. From there, we set off on foot to find the bus stop. Asking for directions along the way, and we finally found the bus stop we were looking for.

 

The bus ride lasted no more than fifteen minutes, taking us to a stop beneath the university's underpass. From there, we walked to the student accommodation where I would stay during the language training course, a precursor to the formal start of my studies.

 

The halls of residence were situated on the southern edge of the university campus, and for someone treading those paths for the first time, the distance felt deceptively long.

 

Once we arrived, we unpacked and settled in. Later, in the shared kitchen, I met some of the other residents. Over a cup of tea, we exchanged introductions and began chatting.

 

It was during this casual conversation that someone suggested, "Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight?"

 

 

 

The student residence consisted of two long buildings standing parallel to each other, with a central courtyard where tables and benches had been placed.

 

As we stepped outside, I noticed a man watching us. He was stocky, dressed in a summer khaki shirt and camouflage-style trousers, and wore teardrop-shaped sunglasses that obscured his face. Those nearby remarked, "That man’s looking at you, Anna." And indeed, it seemed his attention was fixed in my direction.

 

In that moment, the same three French sentences I had wanted to say back at the youth hostel suddenly resurfaced in my mind:

 

“Bonsoir monsieur.”

“Vous allez bien?”

“Vous habitez ici?”

 

Why did I feel the urge to speak those words? I couldn’t even be sure he was French. And yet, something told me he might be understood.

 

As I hesitated, one of the other students in the hall called out to me from a distance. "We’re heading off now—you coming?"

 

That was all it took for me to walk away.

 

I glanced back a few times, still holding on to the faint urge to speak those three words. But the thought of being left alone in this unfamiliar university, where everything was new and strange, unnerved me too much to take the risk.

 

Even now, I find myself wondering why those particular French phrases came to mind. I wasn’t fluent in the language, not by any stretch. And if he had been French, I would almost certainly have been lost in the conversation the moment it went beyond pleasantries.

 

Perhaps I should have summoned the courage to approach him. Looking back now, I wonder what might have come of it.

 

If I had spoken to him, perhaps that fleeting moment would have turned into something entirely different—a meeting worth remembering, instead of a mystery I’ve carried all these years.