Cracking the code

To a Norwegian small-town boy like myself, London is bound to come across as a gargantuan sprawl of buildings, streets, parks and the like. It's easy to get lost in a maze like this, particularly if you've been born into the world with no identifiable sense of direction.



But back home from a four-day stay in this UK metropolis, I can - for once - brag about having succeeded, more than once, in hoodwinking the deeply annoying companion that's been stalking me whenever I've been abroad: the abysmal tendency to hop onto the wrong train, or, even worse, to hop onto the right train - when the carriages are soon found to be moving in the opposite direction from where you're meant to go.

GOT YOU, NAPOLEON!

Yes, this was a personal triumph for me. Armed with a tourist map and a premeditated surplus of time, I finally managed to sort out which line would take me to the destination of my own choice. And so I was able to move about freely for hours on end without someone to escort me. I felt like a Nelson having conquered his Napoleon when I climbed the stairs from the Bank underground station, soon finding myself looking straight at the curving lines of London Bridge, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

So forget about the Olympics. I'm too old to compete. Forget about the Oscar's. I'll never be cast in any major feature film. Forget about the Nobel prize ceremony. I'm not going to be invited. I'm just as happy anyway, having foiled the ghost of past visits to this one-time hub of an Empire that encompassed a quarter of the Earth's surface.

I may very well return one day, on condition that the tube system isn't shut down. Because without it this city of six million people is likely to prove to be too much of a trial to people like myself. Too many streets, and not nearly enough visible landmarks to navigate by.