Wednesday August 8th 2019

The quadrille is a dance that became fashionable in in Europe during the late 18th and into the 19th century. All of which, mildly interesting as it may be, does not in the least explain what is happening here at 2.30pm on August 7th 2019. This modern interpretation of the quadrille involved eight feet in combinations of two. Four feet originated in Italy, four feet of English descent. A moment of calm in this endlessly moving city of international appeal. A motionless quadrille of coming together. If I had a mind to such fancy, possibly celebrating the origin of the term Quadrill, that of 17th-century military parades in which four mounted horsemen executed square formations. I think we may have lost our horses.

We were in Bath to meet my lovely friends Cristina and Luigi. Finding ourselves outside the Abbey, following a quick lunch by the river, this tourist plaque in the pavement caught my eye. My image for the day captured for posterity. It had been 16 years since we last met. Cristina and Luigi are on holiday in England and so an opportunity arose to rekindle the friendship here in Bath. Sitting on a bench outside the Roman Baths waiting for their arrival (after their 2 hour guided tour of the City) we began to people watch. 

Oscillating tides of human tourists entertained me as they flowed back and forth across the tourist heartland. Scanning the hundreds of people ahead of me for my friends, it struck me how flock like tourism is. Pulses of people paraded behind guides (often with follow me umbrellas aloft). I scanned all the faces looking for my friends. It struck me that for a split-second I saw peoples faces. People who were strangers moments before caught my gaze for an instant and my attention. Moments later they passed out of view, a receding memory, returning to their world, in which I was excluded. That is tourism, a collision of time at a place of interest. Transitory, intellectually stimulating, ultimately ephemeral. Unlike friendships.

In that blur of humanity I scanned every face for that special person. A kaleidescope of images, of which none of whom I connected. Then, as I caught sight of Cristina, the Madding Crowd disappeared into a faded background, beside her Luigi, two people formed into my field of view. We waved, we hugged, we connected. Two people in a sea of a thousand faces reunited after years apart. Interconnected Friendship at its prime.

After this image was taken we entered the Abbey and its adorned walls of memorial plaques.  People who were strangers centuries before caught my gaze for an instant and my attention. I read on. Moments later their names passed out of view, a receding memory, they returning to their world behind the memorial plaque. Being alive, I was excluded, as had all the passing tourists over the centuries, though some of whom now were memorial plaques themselves. Memento mori .