Writing about London is hard—not because it’s painful but it has something to do with being in the right place at the right time. I had preconceived ideas about the place that was mainly built out of dreary images of the city, the colour grey, a city obsessed with the royal family and tea drinking. But it was all that and more. So much more.
Being in London reminded me of the things I truly love. And if you know me well, you’d know that I love history and old things. By old things I mean artifacts that intertwined people, culture and time like sculptures, architecture, paintings, spaces, pre-loved goods and furniture. Things that tell a story or two. And London was full of stories.
My story in London began with a mixed bag of nuts. I expected spring in April but I encountered what seemed liked Seattle in Europe. Rain. Most days I’d come back home a little wet from the rain outside and see my dresses, skirts and sleeveless shirts staring back at me with regret from inside my bag. Folded and creased they sigh as I flip through my phone to see tomorrow’s weather.
The first couple of weeks were tougher than expected. I met so many new faces, remembered many names and names attached to faces, visited many places and underground stops. It was overwhelming when I missed the familiarity of friends and family back home. But I’ve adjusted into a worshipper of the elusive sun after and it really did seem like home for that few weeks with some new found friends.
I’ll write more in the next post but for now, I’ll leave you with some photos I just developed.