Brixton Market

If Church Street is Marrakesh, Brixton is Kingston. As I ambled down the street, filled with fatigue, hunger, and a readiness to crawl under the covers and relax, I bumped into a Jamaican woman walking the opposite direction.

"Look where you are moving!"

I was a little surprised. Sure, I'd bumped into her, and I've been yelled at by passers-by all over the British Isles and onto the continent, but I didn't anticipate it here. Truthfully, it ruined my entire experience. Perhaps I'm just a fragile boy in general, but I got off on the wrong foot and never recovered.

I think Lauren and I arrived too late to see Brixton in full bloom. Sure, there were many vendors selling many different items (as Lauren's photos attest, once again, below), but nothing intrigued me. A significant aspect of my personal market experience involves surveying the faces of the pedestrians passing by, and my run-in with the Jamaican woman made me avoid eye contact at all costs.

In fact, I don't know where my eyes were. Lauren and I split up. She went to take pictures while I jotted down some menial notes in my journal, most of which are indecipherable. I don't remember the items pictured below. That woman sure shook me.

But the diversity was in full force once again. It wasn't Church Street, but it was still diverse. I felt out of place as a white male. But despite my discomfort (which will one day pass, I hope), I felt victorious. As we walked out of the tube station at Brixton, it was 3:25. We'd done it. Perhaps that's what cut our visit short. We knew we'd accomplished our goal (plus one!), and we had our beds waiting for us back at Atlantic House.

I'd like to go back, really. But then again, I'd like to do six in six again. I couldn't pay any of these markets enough attention. I couldn't give them all their due diligence. But such is the power of the London markets; the more you see, the smaller you feel.

One last time, pictures below.