As a romantic, it seems perfectly logical that my first observation of this city would be of love. A man walks down the street with flowers in his hands. A kiss is shared between 2 men dressed like suburban dads. A couple holds hands on their way down the escalator. I notice these things because I can’t wait for my life to be filled with them. I can’t wait to be in love.
Sure, I’ve experienced love in the way my mom and I have become friends after my arduous adolescent years, in the way I cuddle with my best friend on the couch, and in the way I push my little brother down the stairs because he’s my brother and that’s my job. But that’s not the kind of love I’m talking about. This is what I’m talking about: On the corner of Store and Gower, a green electric scooter sits at a red traffic light. It holds two riders. In front is a girl with straight brown hair hidden under a yellow beanie. Behind her is a man with a full figure and a graying beard. With the girl’s feet taking up most of the scooter, he has very little room and is struggling to balance. He looks much older than her, but there’s no doubt that they belong together. When the light turns green and they take off, I catch a glimpse of the girl’s face, her lover’s arms wrapped around her to steer the scooter. Her smile is wide, revealing her straight pearly whites. Her giggles radiate joy, and I can’t help but notice how much fun she’s having. She laughs like he’s her best friend and there’s nowhere in the world she’d rather be. She knows exactly who she is, what she wants. I feel the radiation of her joy. It’s infectious and my mood is boosted by that tiny pocket of sunshine. God, I love this city. I’m excited by the possibilities it holds. It’s given me the chance to start over, to figure out which version of myself is my favorite. It’s given me the chance to become that happy girl on the scooter. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, and here I am, proving to myself that I am strong enough to handle myself on my own. This is the time in my life when things are supposed to start happening, and I’m hopeful that London will bring me that. *** I go to the park behind the Bloomsbury farmer’s market. My feet crunch with each step on the gravel path. I choose a bench next to a patch of yellow daffodils. Traffic roars on the street just beyond the fences that border this park, hidden by the hedges. It occurs to me that quiet doesn’t exist here. Even in the spaces where quiet is supposed to live, there’s always sound. There’s no rest. It’s exhausting, but that’s exactly what makes it so exciting, what makes it feel so promising. I debate getting a coffee at the little shack by the gate, but there is a queue forming of men in sweater vests and women in tan overcoats, so I pull out my journal instead. I imagine the man of my dreams approaching my bench and asking for permission to sit. I agree and after a minute, he speaks. “What are you writing?” I’m startled. At first, I don’t believe he’s talking to me, and I do that awkward thing where I look behind me for the person he’s actually talking to. He laughs and says “No, I’m talking to you.” I scold myself for letting my insecurity show so easily. “Oh…I do this thing where I write down the best thing that happened to me every day. I’ve forgotten to write them down the last few days, so I’m catching up.” “Read me some.” He crosses his leg to show me that he’s not going anywhere. I stare at him, debating how honest to be. His long face stares back, waiting. “Um, okay.” I start reading. After one particular entry that I wrote on a Tuesday (that’s trivia night for the 2022 Gower Gang), he gives me a quizzical look. “Woah, what?” He interrupts. His eyes search for more. So I tell him the story which is followed by another story and then another. When we’ve been sitting there so long my butt is asleep, I stand up to go. I realize I haven’t told him my name. “I’m Ashlyn, by the way. I guess you know enough about me now to deserve that.” I reach out my hand and he shakes it. My dad always said a firm handshake was the sign of a good man, but I have my own opinions. He passes my test. I start to walk away, but I pivot after about five steps and call back to him. “Hey, do you want to get a coffee sometime?” He smiles in response so I get his number and we go for coffee and then he asks me to marry him, Disney princess style. My daydream ends and I’m pulled back to the bench at the park. There isn’t anyone sitting next to me. People walk by, but no one stops to ask me what I’m writing. I walk home alone. *** I am at the Ambrose Cafe in the upstairs part of Heal’s furniture store. I order a fresh-squeezed orange juice and pull out my laptop to do some homework. A young woman sits in the booth at the table next to me. She waits by herself for a few minutes until a quiet, subtly confident and charismatic man joins her. Instead of sitting across the table from her, he sits next to her on the booth. At first, I can’t read the vibes; they’re chatting, small talk, and he apologizes for being late. A second date maybe? And then he kisses her. Quick and soft, but lovely, passionate. She glows. It’s been almost an hour and I presume they are here to do work, but both of their backpacks remain zipped on the floor under the table. As he talks to her, her hand rests on his thigh, and he has every bit of her attention. She’s totally enthralled by him, the newness of their chemistry still fresh and exciting. Unlike this couple, I’m starting to lose interest in the things London is saying to me. It hasn’t yet brought me the perfect fairytale, finding-myself story I wanted it to. The people are too much. Going outside feels overwhelming and exhausting. There’s no such thing as warm, and I’m tired. I’m afraid London is letting me down. *** I exit the house, heaving open the black door labeled in gold with the number 35, careful not to let it slam behind me. I proceed down the stairs, already turning to the left before I reach the sidewalk. I walk forward with purpose, strutting like I know exactly where I’m going even though my destination is undetermined. I enter Goodge Street station and pull out my Oyster card, barely stopping as I scan it to walk through the gate. When I reach the platform, I don’t stop to look at the signs. I don’t stop to figure out which direction I want to go or where I will disembark. I follow my intuition to the northbound platform. I lean against the wall and wait. The train rumbles up, and I stand next to the door to let an older gentleman off. He looks at me in a way I can’t say I appreciate, his gaze running from my head to my feet, stopping briefly at my chest. I roll my eyes and push past him, sitting down on the faded blue tube seat, When I look up, I lock eyes with the girl across from me, and my jaw very nearly drops open. She is paired with a man sitting next to her; their fingers are intertwined. They are the most beautiful two humans I’ve ever seen. He is tall with dark olive skin and dark hair. He kind of looks like my dad's best friend, but I’d rather not think about that. His slick black hair reaches down to brush the expensive turtle neck he’s wearing. His khaki pants fit around his muscular legs perfectly, like they were made just for him. The girl wears jeans and white Air Forces with a long brown pea coat. Her light brown hair is the color of golden caramel, highlighted at the front. Her beauty is natural; she wears only mascara and her skin is perfectly clear. She is walking proof that pounds of caked-on makeup don't even compare to a natural glow that comes from simply being a human. Her features are individually beautiful, but combined they form a face that is nothing short of divine. Her eyes are the perfect distance apart with just the right amount of lid visible above the brown irises that pop with the neutral colors she's wearing. She has one of the cutest noses I've ever seen: straight until the gentle curve around the nostrils which are shaped like almonds. Her lips are proportional in the way lips should be. The top one is small but with a wonderful sweetheart line while the bottom one is pillowy, sticking out just the right amount. These two people are beautiful apart, but knowing they're a couple makes them even more attractive. I make eye contact with her a few times because I just can't stop staring. Ironically, there is a purple TFL advertisement above them that reminds passengers that staring inappropriately is a form of sexual harassment. She puts her head on his shoulder and they exchange whispers. Maybe they’re talking about what they’ll cook for dinner that night while How I Met Your Mother plays in the background. Or maybe they’re talking about what they’ll name their kids one day. Or maybe they’re arguing about how she leaves her socks on the bedroom floor. They get off at Leicester Square, and I’m disappointed that I’ll never see them again, never know where they’re going, never get to learn their names. *** There’s a man busking on the corner just outside the Camden Town Underground station. He has curly dark hair, and his voice is nothing short of angelic. I stand to watch him while his passion flows from his fingers and into his guitar. After a woman asks me for directions, I tip him, and he thanks me in the next measure of rest. His accent tells me he’s American. Turns out, he’s married. To a beautiful blonde man. They have an apartment together. And a dog. He followed his dreams. He moved here because that’s where his heart was leading. He met the love of his life. They live like twenty-somethings in love should live. He has exactly what I want, exactly what I came here chasing. Dreams, talent, love, passion, identity, answers. *** I walk down Bond Street at sundown. Golden hour has just passed and dusk is beginning to settle over the townhouses. The air is cooling off, and I pull my coat tighter around my shoulders. One couple has not yet closed the curtains, and light pours from their living room onto the darkening street. Inside, I can see the two wrapped in an embrace. I imagine what they’re going through that could warrant such contact. He stands, sturdy, with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet planted on the wood floor shoulder-width apart. His back is turned to her because he’s trying to keep it together. For her or maybe for him or maybe, just maybe, for the father whose voice never leaves his head. The woman tiptoes up behind him, making enough graceful noise that he will know she is there. He is not startled when she rubs her hand down the muscles of his back. Her touch breaks the facade he’s trying to uphold. His features crinkle. She embraces him, puts her arms around his shoulders like you do when you’re the one doing the holding. They stay there for a while, driven by the mutual need to hold on. I feel the need to hold on. The weeks are slipping away, and I can’t bear the thought of not being here. I realize that London brought me exactly what I needed at a time when I desperately needed it. I found love, and it looks different than I hoped it would, but I wouldn’t change it. The community, the ecosystem we’ve created within the walls of number 35 has woven itself into my very being. I’m afraid to exist without it. I hold on.
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