the other side of the Atlantic
London, the lush coral bleed of a sunrise thirty-two thousand feet above ground spilling through the crack of your window seat on this one-way flight. Packing for this is how you learnt that five bags on the baggage carousel can represent a lifetime.
The weekend you move into your flat, you spent all day cleaning that you forgot to eat, which is how you found yourself in the hot dog stall at Ikea Greenwich at 6.30pm, a giant among all the children clutching their parents’ hands, fumbling with change that you couldn’t properly count for just yet. Frustrated, you empty all of the coins onto your palm and hold them up to the cashier like an offering, trying to make a joke about having just moved. There you go, love, she says, and picks out £1.75. Later, while waiting in line for the delivery van to come along, you get into a conversation with the guy who’s organizing the delivery requests; he asks, are you new? and you laugh. 72hours-new, my friend. You both end up exchanging an American dollar note for a £1 coin, as ‘souvenirs’. When the van driver comes along and you finish hauling your things into the car, he waves you both down and yells across the pristine wood floors, take care of her, she’s new!. You lean out of the window and raise an imaginary toast, the rings on your fingers flickering in the post-sunset light. Here’s to another chapter.
There are two and a half seasons in a day. There are office workers packing into and spilling out of pubs on balmy Friday evenings, their idle chatter a soundtrack to the start of yet another weekend; empty pint glasses standing at attention in a street corner amid the remnants of a broken wine bottle, the concrete stained a deep grey in blotches — a blush gone rogue.
London is. Having to remember to tap your card at the turnstile again as you exit a tube station. Once, maybe a week in, your muscle memory walked you up the escalators and right into the turnstile, the sharp smack of metal on ankle bone jolting you back into this place - or, I suppose I should say - home, now. You reach for your Metrocard out of habit and pull out a teal green contactless in its place, its pristine surface still showing no signs of card machine teeth, shiny with the promise of what this city could be for you. If you let it.
And so you try. You get the Spotify notification that Arizona - the band, not the state - is playing at a club off Charing Cross Road and you get a ticket and go, alone. You realize that Bon Iver, Leon Bridges, Mumford & Sons, AND The Tallest Man on Earth are all playing at this day festival at Victoria Park, and instead of trying to corral the two friends you have outside of work in London to come along you say, fuck it. So you show up on day one alone, and on day two with a complete stranger that you’ve met off the internet (note - not a dating app..!). And you have a blast both days, regardless.
London is. Being taken to Drake’s sold-out show at the O2 with someone unexpected.
London is also accidentally making friends with someone who works at Formula 1, who gets you a pin from the F1000 race in Shanghai, whom you show around Brick Lane where you try to convince him - albeit unsuccessfully - to get his first denim jacket.
It is leaving work late and finding joy in practicing your faux British accent with the security desk, trading Americanisms with your coworkers, getting invited to go on a rowdy night out in Shoreditch and coming to the pleasant realization - in the sweaty, bass-filled basement of Old Street Records - that you never forgot the lyrics to Mr Brightside.
Nothing lasts forever. But if it can last longer than you can love it, that should be enough.
