September 2012
I don’t really know where to begin. At the moment, I’m sitting in an old fashioned chair—you know…four legs, no arm rests, barely any spinal support—with chipped baby blue paint, staring at the coaster beneath my cup of green tea which reads, “Wine: How Classy People Get Shitfaced.” This is my favourite coaster. I have a few with similar styles of sassiness, but this one remained on my desk while I travelled all summer. Thinking back, this coaster has been on my desk, next to my ever increasing pile of ‘notes to deal with’ for almost a year now. It has seen the bottomless pit of books, movies and music guide me through a transition that I am still dealing with.
On the late nights where the clock seemed to jump from midnight to 3 am, there was Cat Stevens and Van Morrison, with intermittent bouts of Procol Harum, Pearl Jam, The Smashing Pumpkins, Coheed and Cambria and Beyoncé. Obviously there was always Beyoncé. For the seven weeks before the end of term, where all I did was write incessantly about topics I still don’t quite understand, there was a steady rotation of films to get me through the day (and night)…When Harry Met Sally, Clueless, The Godfathers, Pretty Woman, Top Gun and Notting Hill to name but a few. And while the stack of theoretical mumbo jumbo next to my computer grew slow but steady, there was a library copy of Aidan Hartley’s The Zanzibar Chest next to my bed to bring me out of theory and back to travel and adventure.
I built up a steady addiction to McVitie’s digestive biscuits, both plain and chocolate covered, and watched the seasons change from spring to summer as coats were shed and the English started turning a bit pink, like salmon.
Months after putting my files of classic 90’s romcoms to rest, I find myself rereading lines of Steve Jobs’s biography. Both for business and pleasure, this text seems to resonate now more than ever before. In speaking about the realistic possibility of impractical dreams, he refers to Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass. After Alice laments that no matter how hard she tries she can’t believe impossible things, the White Queen retorts, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
Touché, White Queen. Touché.
School was tough, still is. It is constant, never ending, always there. But the truth is that I am happier having something to do. I joke to my friends that I need scheduled free time, but hey, it’s how I roll. Always have. And while the papers were being written, edited, chopped, cut, pasted and rewritten, one of my closest and oldest friends—excuse me, the oldest of twenty years—told me some news that paved the way for my most epic summer yet.
We have known each other for two decades. For all the times I never understood people who have shared the same group of friends since elementary school, she is mine. And even though we went our separate ways at the end of the 7th grade, something of great substance kept us traveling in and out of each other’s lives. I don’t know why some friends stick around for a day and others for a life time, except to say that everyone we meet serves some sort of purpose in our lives, for who we are and who we might become. I don’t know that twenty years is any more a guarantee but I do know that it is something very special to be in the comfort of people who know you now just as well as they did then. She is that for me. We are incredibly different, the two of us. Not so much the odd couple, but a lesson to each other. What I didn’t know in the midst of a dissertation was that we both needed this summer for reasons that went beyond our love to travel, to be in motion.
My Papa Abe recently wrote down his life story. Suffice to say, he puts my letters to shame, but one day when these letters of mine fall into a book, he will be the one it is dedicated to. I’ve read his story a few times now, never getting through the first paragraph without crying. Yes, I cry at the drop of a hat, forever dealing with my inability to hide my emotions. But I cry reading his opening line because it is where he thanks the break of day, every morning, for the life he has made for himself. I found this act so lovingly humble in its simplicity that while I was away and even now, I take a moment every day to tell myself how very lucky I am. My life, like my Papa’s, is beyond measure, so only words will do.
In the beginning, it all sounded like an impossible dream. Drop three copies of my dissertation in the hands of my tutors, take the tube to the airport, travel to Turkey and Israel with my family, spend another 10 days in Israel on my own, travel back to London for five days and then board the Eurostar to Paris. That would have been enough, more than. But we all know that great travel takes unexpected turns and my summer took me beyond Paris, to see some of the deepest corners of France, Spain, Amsterdam and Germany too.
We had notes and ideas and lists of things to do, but underneath it all, we wanted to get away. There wasn’t an objective or a goal; Just a house in Paris that had been gifted to us for the summer. We wanted to live in Paris and that is exactly what we did. We ran in the mornings, shopped at the markets, cooked dinners at home, made lunch for the day, went to the cinema and drank wine. Lots of wine. We wanted to put our lives in our respective homes at a distance while we experienced the here and now in Paris.
So it began. Life in Paris. Thinking about it now, I still don’t know when Paris is at her most beautiful, but two days after we arrived, we saw her light up at night whilst we rode our bikes in the direction of the Tour de Eiffel and yeah, maybe that is as good as it gets. From our home, we rode past the boulangeries, fromageries and charcuteries that overwhelm Rue Monge (literally, Food Boulevard) cornering past the Jardin du Luxembourg, and then up towards the Notre Dame where we turned left and met the glowing lights of the Louvre as they reflected in the Seine.
We wanted to watch the infamous light show, when the Eiffel’s golden steel bars melt away behind a sheet of white, flickering stars for five whole minutes at the top of every hour. And we were right on schedule too, cycling along the Seine, laughing and smiling at the absolute marvel of our lives, when we spotted the dancing stars just beyond the bottom of Saint Germain des Prés. I know it sounds so cliché, racing against time to see this light show, but honestly, it never got old. We did make it with enough time to find a bench, drop the bikes, sit in silence and just look because sometimes, no picture will capture what the eyes can see on their own.
We rode bikes as often as we could, but they weren’t always glamorous adventures. The first time we decided to experiment with the public cycle system, I was almost half way down the street when, let’s call her B, fell off her bike almost immediately after mounting it. The bike and B seemed to get into a bit of a tangle and before I knew it, B was on the ground, with a bad bruise, a few scratches and some very inquisitive Koreans standing over her. They nor I knew what to do, but B had had enough for the day—or so I thought—and just as I had checked my bike back into the system, she surprised us all and said she was ready for another go. Off we went. Overcoming fears. Loving every minute. Addicted as ever.
When we weren’t on bikes, we were on foot. We walked and walked and walked and in some sort of defiance against the metro, we walked and walked and walked some more. We walked because it made no sense not to. Everything was so beautiful, we couldn’t bear the idea that we might miss something if we were underground or on a bus. We never walked with a map, mostly because every bus stop has a big, clear map of the whole city and in the event that we got lost, which happened quite often, it didn’t really matter. We were never in a rush, except for one day, at about five days in, when we had a package to pick up at FedEx. In trying to relay this day, I’ve given up because the notes we kept do a far better job than anything I could manage.
Paris July 31
Left for a run/walk to go to FedEx
All went wrong at Luxembourg Gardens
Found Chirchei Midi
Got lost finding Seine. Crazy Frenchman gave us running location advice. No one else in Paris knew where the Seine was. Eventually found the river. Made it to Haussmann, the street for FedEx. Mistakenly thought the address was 663 instead of 63. Claud miraculously turned around right in front of it. Otherwise would've had hours to go.
Bus home. Nice driver.
Went to our boulangerie Monge for croissant. Claud bit into croissant and lost a piece of her tooth. Booked it home. No dentists available. All on vacay. (No Parisians in Paris in August, or on July 31)
Tried the police station but was gunshot wounded and abandoned. Found Mecca of hospitals. Wished for more ailments. Saw the downside of national healthcare - take a ticket and wait. Claud’s famous line: "these people don't look like they have dental issues"
B: blank stare
Back home phoned everyone
Claud shouted from bathroom. Lost more tooth. Felt ok after talking to dentist from home.
Had to get out. Beautiful night. Bottle of wine and fries.
Amidst the epicness that was FedEx and the somewhat minor/major issue of losing half a tooth, we found ourselves constantly befuddled by the imperfect interruptions to our seemingly perfect days.
There was the time we sat down at quite a fancy café on the Champs-Elysées to have our first Parisian café experience and were brutally rebuffed when we wanted to leave after finding out that an espresso was twelve euros. No big deal. B had been offered water by the waiter and while we should have known it wouldn’t be tap, we were horrified to find out that it too cost twelve euros. Our perfect day in Paris seemed to be coming to a screeching halt, but after leaving the bourgeois café in a huff and forgetting to take the most expensive bottle of water ever, a lovely waitress just around the corner rescued our romantic hearts. After we ordered a well priced espresso of 2.5 euros, B managed to spill hers (are you sensing a pattern here?) before even having one sip and when the waitress brought her another and then the check with only 2 espressos and not 3, we smiled warmly and walked home with our faith in the French somewhat restored.
These slight imperfections brought us back to reality in a city that seemed like fantasyland.
The first time B and I ventured into the Latin Quarter, I was so excited to speak the few words of French I knew that when I opened my mouth to say bonjour to the very good looking French waiter, butterflies took over and out came au revoir instead. The waiter just looked at us, as French as ever, while B and I burst out laughing because really, shit happens.
Even on the most beautiful days, when sun bled so far down our backs that we resorted to dipping our feet in neighborhood fountains, the evening clouds would bring rain but we welcomed it with open arms and continued to stroll as usual. As a student and former investment banker, respectively, we took Paris by storm on twenty euros a day.
Twenty euros took us pretty far. We visited my favorite museums in Paris…for starters, Musee de l’Orangerie, Centre Pompidou, Musee Rodin and Musee des Arts Decoratifs. But we didn’t stop there. Not even close. Onwards and upwards, ho!
We saw an exhibition of phenomenal photography by Korean artist, Ahae. His images, so pure in their vision of nature, took us both by surprise but prepared us well for our day trip to Giverny where we frolicked amidst the water lilies of Claude Monet’s home and garden. The whole scene was surreal. It was the kind of day where I just sat there thinking WHAT IS MY LIFE. The water lilies were full of so many colors and the weeping willow, which is often featured in Monet’s work stood off in the distance, as if it was carefully watching over the rest of the garden. The lilies were red, yellow, purple…a true mess of vibrant emotion.
Even whilst we roamed the garden in a sort of meditative state, I giggled to myself thinking about one of my favorite lines from the ultimate movie of my generation, Clueless.
Tai: Do you think she’s pretty?
Cher: No, she’s a full-on Monet.
Tai: What’s a Monet?
Cher: It’s like a painting, see? From far away, it’s OK, but up close, it’s a big old mess.
It’s true. Cher is right. But it was the most beautiful big old mess I have ever seen.
On the days where we didn’t spend all that much because we weren’t museum hopping or day tripping, we took our extra pennies and splurged on drinks at the very swanky Buddha Bar.
The first time we went, it worked out perfectly. We managed to spend only three euros that day and quite fortuitously, the drinks were 17 each. Twenty euros well spent, I’d say. That night in particular was so apt in its description of our time in Paris: We had a destination, Buddha Bar, but with no exact time for which we had to arrive. We decided to walk, obviously, and without complaint or any muttering of negativity, we arrived at our destination two hours later. We didn’t take the fastest route nor did we care. But arrived we did and drank we did and a superb time was had by all. And for the imperfect part of the evening—if only to remind me that I am indeed a klutz and a half—I managed to bend some part of my thumb backwards on my chair and only now, more than two months later, does it seem to be healing.
We loved Paris, but we wanted to explore as much of the rest of the country as we could. So, with all the other Parisians, we too left for the beaches of the South of France. With our rail passes in hand, a bruised thumb, half a missing tooth and some fairly fair skinned bodies, we traveled a few hours south to our first stop: Lyon.
Again, I refer to the journal:
Paris to Lyon August 1
Couldn't figure out bus (now that we were actually under some mild pressure) so cabbed to Gare Lyon
Relaxing, scenic train ride
Crazy lady on train, tearing receipts and stuffing into envelop
Super sweet SNCF representative helped us find our way
Questionable walk to hotel
Room is decent. No chateau Tom aka our home in Paris.
Left for a walk. After passing grunge-ville, beauty of the city unfolded. Gorgeous bridges and buildings. Came upon the perfect cafe. Lunch and wine. Bliss.
Roamed the streets and found epic bookstore – life size guitar book. Wanted to purchase but faced a lack of money and lack of space.
Walked through town to river. Sat, soaked feet and met a Spanish woman. Practiced Mexican.
Got a beer at riverside bar as clouds approached.
Felt drops as we left the bar.
Claud told story of a time when a similar situation happened with brother Jon when a few drops turned to deathly nightmare in Budapest. Famous last words.
Enter torrential downpour. Took cover inside abandoned apartment building. Tried our luck to see if door was permanently unlocked and got kicked in ass. Took cover outside under door archway. Ran for cover under abandoned bus stop. Rain/lightening/thunder like no one's bizz.
Splash zone for cars. Wet to the bone. Started to pray.
Claud tried hitch hiking as B protected camera with hat and map. No luck for far foo long…until hot dad in minivan pulls over. Bandana. Barely spoke any English. After a few wrong turns made it to hotel. B sat in baby's car seat entire ride back. Didn't even get his name but shall always be remembered at hot dad who saved our lives.
After drying off, grabbed burgers at pub nearby and called it a night.
Almost dying aside, no joke, we both agree that Lyon rocked. But one day was all we had and off we went, hopping yet another train to Avignon. Ah yes, the day we found a beautifully walled city with a famously unfinished bridge, a hidden pool, and a whopping two train stations for a city the size of my flat. Shaking head.
The day was really quite enjoyable. We walked with our packs, stopping for ice cream and espressos as usual. We found the river and got lost inside a maze of walls. We saw the unfinished bridge and decided we didn’t need to pay six euros just to walk on it. We crossed the river over one bridge that actually was completed and after reading a few days’ worth of old Financial Times, we discovered a semi public pool and it felt like we were golden. Which, in all fairness, was true. The beers were cheap, the water was refreshingly cold and we felt like our time on the beach had started a little earlier than planned. We left the pool with time enough to take a leisurely walk back to the train station where all things considered, we should have had more than enough time to catch our train but it was then, when we looked up at the DEPARTURES board that we realized we were indeed at the wrong station.
In a panic, we checked the tickets and did a fair bit of swearing as we bolted like Hussein out the station. B fell (yet again) and scraped up her knee. No man left behind though, so she got herself together and we ran with absolutely no idea where to go. What walled city has TWO train stations? Ugh. Ridiculous!
As soon as we reached the main road, a bus approached and it signaled that it was headed to the OTHER station. Fine. We chase the bus. No one is on the bus once it stops. We explain to the bus driver that we have a train to catch in ten minutes at the other station. He speaks no English. A woman boards the bus who immediately functions as our translator. We then realize that the other station is indeed ten minutes away and the bus cannot leave for another three minutes, as it needs to wait for more passengers. We hate our lives. B looks like she could kill someone, and she’s got a bloody knee to prove her strength. Our translator tells us that there are no more trains out that night and we start to add up potential money lost. It’s a lot. Three minutes are up, and the driver steps on the gas. We still believe it was his speeding that got us there and on the train as it was pulling away from the station. Bless our driver. Bless our translator. Vive la France!
It’s safe to say that our trip to the south of France was full of little mishaps. From almost missed trains to legitimate crazy people trying to board them (and then escorted off) we had our share of plans running way off course. But I suppose that each little jolt reminded us both to pay respects to the nods of imperfection that came into our lives whether we liked it or not.
I’ve always believed that we show our best and worst selves while traveling. It’s almost impossible to hide anything, especially when things were not going our way. And even when things did go our way, and we were early for trains that were leaving from the station we were standing in, we still showed our true selves and checked the board a good five times to make sure we were indeed at the right station. In the end, it doesn’t really matter how free we felt or how much we let ourselves go. There will always be the same person at the core and I suppose all we can do is hope that when people point out our ridiculous neurosis or paranoia, we just have to laugh at ourselves and continue on.
We did make it to the south eventually. Over the course of three days, we traveled from Toulon to Juan les Pins to Marseilles and back to Paris. We lived in bathing suits, lathered up in sun cream and frolicked in perfectly clear sea green and aqua blue Mediterranean water. It was perfect. We waited for disaster to strike, as per our usual routine, and as luck would have it, there was another crazy man on our train to Marseilles. We moved cars and met a couple 18-year-old Spanish boys from Barcelona. Not a total loss.
When we weren’t in the water, we people watched like it was going out of style. We made up stories when all we could see were mouths moving and struck gold when we found ourselves sitting just behind a group of six elderly French women. Code-named The Six Pack, these older, leathery women each had personality, pizazz and swagger. They were Magazine, Noodle, Diva, Grand Puba and the two that left early, respectively. They seemed to have known each other for decades, and had absolutely no tan lines except for a small white patch beneath the bottom of their bums. Yes, we stared. We stared and pondered what they were saying and when they went into the water, so did we, but our attempts at making new friends failed miserably and eventually, they left the beach looking like glamor girls, putting on their heels once off the sand. They colored every picture I had in my head of what elderly French women who have spent too much time in the sun while chain smoking long thing cigarettes must look like. But they had class and beautiful clothing and for that, they had my utmost respect.
We left the south on a high higher than high and returned to a drizzly but still beautiful Paris. We jumped right back into our local clothes and found a cinema where we could watch an American romantic comedy and gush to each other about love lost and found in both our lives. Having known each other through all of our escapades, it was a wonder that we always had more to say. But in a city as romantic as Paris, we often found ourselves sitting at the kitchen table after dinner or outside on the veranda with a few bottles of wine talking about the people who were on our minds, occupying our thoughts. Whether it was people from the past, who we hoped would be long forgotten, or new friends that hadn’t yet become second nature to either of us, we sat and talked and drank and went to bed feeling a bit more secure about who we were and what we wanted.
We soaked up Paris in every way we knew how. We had our local boulangerie that we stopped by on the way home from a run or on the way out for the day. We visited old neighbourhoods and discovered new ones. We took leisurely strolls on the Seine and visited the canals of the 19th arrondissement. We packed picnics and read our books in the Luxembourg gardens. We visited new parks and fell asleep lying beneath the trees. We stopped into stores we could never afford, if only to appreciate beautiful things made by talented people. We rented a very small but surprisingly heavy sailboat and had our fun following it as it sailed across a large pond of very dirty water. We went to food markets and flea markets, buying as much as we could carry for the journey home. We discovered a chocolate mousse in the supermarket that I hope to never live without again. I died a death with that chocolate mousse. Sigh.
Before we left France for the beaches of Spain, we made our mark in the Northeast and Northwest of the country. We traveled to Beaune to taste some wine, though the whole town seemed a bit like Disneyland and I came back to Paris thinking about how I’d rather drink a nice bottle at the kitchen table instead.
A few days later we traveled to Normandy, a destination that I foolishly hadn’t given much thought to. The truth is that underneath this fine art school exterior, I am quite the history buff and love pretty much everything from history books to decade driven movies. I love history for its romance, its nostalgia. But I suppose that above it all, I love history because of its suspension, its crisis, its themes of ever-accumulating past and its formation on how we look at the world. And when it comes to American history, I find my South African born self feeling ever patriotic and passionate about those who fought and continue to fight for our freedom.
We went to Normandy excited and nervous about what we would see and how we would feel. The whole day felt like a time warp had taken us back to the very first day of the Normandy invasion as we stood on the beaches, walked through the cliffs and paid homage at the cemeteries. It was a cold, windy and rainy day, which seemed fitting for such an occasion. The air was thick and eerie and I couldn’t stop thinking about how many men had fallen on those beaches. We were told of facts and figures, each one more staggering than the one before. We looked at pictures taken during the invasion and amidst the sadness that was that day, I was inspired again by the power held in those photographs. Our trip to Normandy was a day unlike any other. It was a moment to stop and remember. We came home exhausted from a day that felt like an emotional rollercoaster compounded with information overload. But in a summer full of endless faffing about, it felt good to take some time and look back instead of forward.
As soon as we found our feet again, we left Paris one final time. Our journey took us Southwest to Bordeaux. That city is a wonder. Still now, I don’t think either of us has ever seen a larger amount of wheelchairs, usually with a complimentary King Charles, in any other city around the world. Even so, we immediately fell in love with Bordeaux. We walked along the river, cut into various gardens and watched ducks groom themselves as the rest of the city stood very still on a quiet Sunday afternoon. But as the sun set, people emerged from every direction and soon the bars were packed, restaurants were full and our walk back along the river felt like we were part of a completely different city. Not to worry, there were still plenty of wheelchairs and King Charles to be had. Amidst them, we spotted swing dancers at a local outdoor dance spot, we scurried around hundreds of little fountains shooting water up into the hot night sky and we got lost in a maze of alcoves and alleys as we tried to find our hotel. We did make it back, eventually, after we shared two scoops of my all-time favorite flavor: Mint chocolate chip.
We left Bordeaux for Bayonne and Biarritz. Lucky us had another crazy French woman on the train with her poor Spanish niece. As I tried to finish up some postcards and enjoy the ride, B got tangled into a very ugly mess of translation with the conductor from French to English to Spanish. French Tia (aunt in Spanish) babbled loudly and sang the entire train ride. I was fairly displeased and put on my death face. The whole translation culminated into the super simple task of switching train cars as to not miss our stop. I would have thought we had to take horses, a cow and possibly a bike to get to our destination considering the amount of time spent on the explanation via the conductor and crazy French Tia. In the end, we just shook our heads, and escaped the dynamic duo as fast as possible.
Bayonne and Biarritz are just a half an hour apart but it feels as though one is traveling between old and new. Bayonne is a classic town, surrounded by bridges, canals and riverside restaurants. Biarritz is a surfer’s paradise packed with throngs of beach goers all set to the soundtrack of a gorgeous man with a ridiculous visor selling beignets on the beach. We parked ourselves on the beautiful sand until sunset, listening to the man shout, ‘Abricot! Nutella!’ whilst children chased after him to get their life size donuts full of delicious goodness. Yum.
This pattern continued for another day as B and I reveled in our last hours together. We sat on the beach, surrounded by our packs, bags, books and journals as we remembered all the moments from our last six weeks together. Everything that wasn’t said was said that day. It was all out there now. All the fears and the secrets, the family nuances and the insecurities were put into a little time capsule that will forever be a part of the year I moved to London. It was the end of the beginning, I guess.
But it wasn’t totally over just yet. That night, after our last day on the beach together, we took a beautiful (albeit bumpy) ride winding along the Basque coast en route to San Sebastian. It was then, when we were hungry, tired and badly in need of showers and clean clothes that we entered into our most epic night yet. In a different way, it beat out all our nights of bicycle rides in Paris, all of our long walks around the city and our days on the beach.
Bayonne to San Sebastian August 21
Super cool vibe and hostel.
Everyone crowded in the kitchen eating paella and drinking when we arrived.
B and Claud showered.
Complementary paella and cervesas thanks to Mario. Met the hostel crew ... Mario, Piedro and creepy Carlos. Heard buzz about pub-crawl.
Mario waited and escorted us to first bar. Drinks and fun! Second bar literally next door. Shots and the start of dancing. Headed to third bar. Downstairs drinks and dancing.
Claud and B were hit dancers of the night. Another shot and beer. Who's counting?
Fourth spot aka club where shit went down.
More dancing and more drinks. B and Piedro/Claud and Mario high school make out sessions. 4:30 am stagger back to hostel. Last goodbyes.
B left an hour later for a magical six-hour bus ride and I was left alone. It took a little bit of time to stop looking for my partner in crime, but eventually things were just as they should be. I was back to traveling alone, figuring things out as I went, looking at pictures on my camera as a gentle reminder that the stories I tell myself in my head really…did…happen. But I missed my friend. At the most basic level, I missed having someone who found my jokes legitimately funny, which, unfortunately, they’re not always as humorous as I’d like. But more than that, I missed the companionship and it was a privilege indeed to experience life at this stage of our lives together.
I left Spain with a big smile on my face, ready to face the life in London I had so swiftly left behind. I came home, did a few loads of laundry, saw some friends and before I knew it, I was on yet another train. This time, it was to Amsterdam and Germany. I went with school friends, the kind that are not life-long friends but very well might become them. They are the friends who are so new to me but in so many ways, they are incredibly intuitive, intimate and gentle. They are the people I am excited to go to school for, the kind that I’ll travel an hour for just to have a cup of tea and the ones who are as intellectually stimulating as they are naughty, silly, and totally ridiculous. I suppose as I get older, I just want to spend the free time I have with completely fabulous people and a year later, I’ve got a few more than just one. What a gift.
Amsterdam and Germany were all art all the time. We saw a friend’s show in Amsterdam and then drove to Germany to experience the splendor of dOCUMENTA 13—an exhibition of the most Contemporary art that only happens once every five years. All I can say is ‘Wow’ because it truly was beyond. I saw work that made me laugh and work that made me cry and by the time we returned to London, I was ready to jump back into it all.
Well, that’s not really true. I mean I was excited to be back in London and I liked the idea of getting back into the books and picking up where I left off…but I wasn’t sure about my place in London. This summer was incredible, but it shook things up without the slightest intention. What I only realized when I returned to London was that all those bike rides and all those walks and all those chats over wine at the kitchen table opened up a new life that I didn’t want to leave behind. And when I came back to London, the struggle to maintain that sense of wonder just seemed inefficient and a bit out of place.
But now, as I sit here staring once again at my coaster, I know that it took a year. It took a year to stop trying to nest because as my friend Rachel likes to remind me, nesting is very expensive. It took a year to love my flat for what it is and leave everything else behind. It took a year to make good, true, solid friends. It took a year to really love those pinstriped men coming home from work on the tube with the paper in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. It took a year to try and figure out what I’m doing here and why I’m doing it and then just give into it because for now, I’m done asking those questions. It took a year to learn another city, another language, and another culture. It took a year to let go of heartache and find some sort of balance with who I am as I jump head first into my second year in this perfectly imperfect place.