London; a city of gentle, flowering gardens, of towering, tilted red-brick buildings. A city of uneven streets and winding sidewalks, pubs tucked neatly in alleyways. A city of vines that spill over window sills and curl around abandoned bikes, grip rusting railings, crawl along park benches. London; a city of underground tube stations and snaking corridors that echo with the footsteps of thousands.
At the beginning of your time in London, you often sit your body in the common room of 35 Gower Street with seventeen other bodies that you now live with. You wonder who they are and if you really know them, even though, yes, of course you know them. And then you think about how for most of your life, this body, no– your body has felt borrowed rather than owned and if you still feel alien to your own body, how are you supposed to be comfortable enough to live with seventeen stranger-bodies? You think about this for some time, looking down at yourself from above. Your blonde head bobs up and down, nodding at something that another body is saying, something you’re not really listening to. You want to listen, you do, but on the blue couch, you can’t stop thinking about how much you miss your mom and the blackberry waffles she used to make every Saturday morning. You think about your dog and how you would do anything to hold him close to your chest for just a few minutes, but then your palms grow sweaty because no, you didn’t mean that. You wouldn’t do anything because that would imply that you could, like, kill someone for just a few minutes with your dog and you definitely don’t intend to do that. Yeah, you’re full-on spiraling. Your arms are wrapped around your stomach and your ice-cube feet are folded underneath each other. You're biting the inside of your cheek so hard that the metallic taste of blood comes from somewhere far away. You decide to go for a walk. You put on your winter coat, palm closing around the crystal that your mom hid in your pocket before you left home. You rub your thumb against it and open the front door and for the first time all day, you feel like you can breathe. The wind, London’s steady breath, plays with your hair. London’s arms pull your body in tight, narrow passageways and warm storefronts, the best hug a city could give. You watch the bodies around you, moving rhythmically alongside yours. A lady in a bubblegum pink jacket pushes her Pomeranian in a stroller– the dog has better hair than you do. You smile. A man and his young daughter walk side by side, his hands in the pockets of faded blue jeans, her face upturned to his like she can see something that you can’t. An older couple shuffles by, the woman’s lips are cherry red and she grips onto her husband's arm with white knuckles. He carries a tote bag full of fresh vegetables from the market. He nods at you. For some reason, it makes you feel much better. You pick up your pace. London swallows you whole, as it does every individual that ventures its secrets. You know that you aren’t special in this, in the swallowing, but you feel special. You started the walk not knowing what you were looking for, but several weeks later you realize that it is yourself. You learn to enjoy your own company, that befriending yourself is easier when you think of your inner monologue as a separate entity. You begin loving the small moments alone: washing your face in the early morning, the sun on your shoulders in the garden, the walk home from the fruit stand. Weeks go by and you continue to wander this city with the 35 Gower Street occupants. Rainy mornings are spent meandering to dimly lit bookstores, curled in plush armchairs, drinking chai lattes and writing. Many afternoons are spent aimlessly roaming the city, alive with the surge of energy that the city gives you– you can feel it awake underneath the soles of your shoes. It excites you, this feeling. The girl next to you feels it too, you can tell by the way she tilts her chin to the sky. One afternoon is spent lying on your back in lush grass, a curly-haired friend by your side, both of you staring up at the spider-web tree branches. You both brought books, but they lay unopened in your tote bag because all you want to do is talk. When you get home, you nap with the curtains in your bedroom wide open, quiet London sunlight spilling across your bedsheets. One afternoon passes at Regent’s park, suitcases of water balloons dragged by diligent capture-the-flag team captains. It snowed earlier that morning, the sky a blanket of gray, little flakes dancing from the clouds. But, when you and your teammates show up at the park, war paint on your cheeks, the sun comes out. You hide the Viking-helmet-for-a-flag and the battle begins. You thought you would care about whether or not you won, but you don’t really care because you feel like a little kid again and you’ve been trying to feel that way for months now. (You’re a liar because you definitely do care about winning. You did win, by the way. All three games. Just saying…) Nights are belly-laughs and mint tea and scratchy blue blankets stacked in the corner of the common room. Nights are card games and wrestle matches, Shrek marathons and root beer floats, vodka and drunken cuddles. Nights are tabletop dancing at clubs and piggyback rides around the block at three am, but nights can also be slow and warm and comfortably quiet. Nights are burnt croissants and the ends of books and the sharing of secrets. Nights are spent at College Arms, the pub around the corner, for (Tipsy) Trivia Tuesday. Your team loses religiously, but hey, at this point it's part of the tradition. Saturday nights are reserved for karaoke at Central Station’s gay bar, you and your friends take turns under the grainy spotlight, belting like no one is watching. There are, in fact, many people watching– the sea of older men and whoever decided to stream the night’s performance on Youtube– but they don’t judge you too harshly. After a month of karaoke, you work up the courage to do a solo. Singing is one of your passions but you hide it from most. You love it so much that it scares you, revealing that part of yourself to those whose opinions you value so highly. But you do it, you sing the solo and it feels so good to show your authentic, raw self to these people that you have come to love. Time passes like this, in a honeyed blur of laughter, and the once unfamiliar bodies of 35 Gower Street suddenly become people, souls, that you adore. You write in your journal about the ways that they laugh and create art and show affection and suddenly, you realize that all of these strangers are the most beautiful individuals you’ve ever met. Where you were once terrified to be in the same room with them, you are now even more terrified that you might never be in the same room with them again. Where London used to intimidate you, it now intrigues you. It is a strange feeling, loving a city you were once scared of. You learn that London birds sing all through the night and time moves and tastes like thick maple syrup. You learn that people here are private. The worker at the juice stand doesn’t tell you about how his lizard is doing or his weekend plans like your smoothie guy back in America would. You learn that most dogs walk off-leash and taxi drivers have the whole labyrinth of London memorized and most importantly, you’re beginning to learn how to like yourself. As you type those words, the words that declare that you like yourself, you think about the time in the bathroom when you looked at yourself in the toothpaste splattered mirror and thought about how badly you wanted to be someone, anyone, else. You looked at yourself with genuine hate, wondering why you had to be so disgusting and strange and ugly. And then, you turned away from the mirror and braced your hands against the yellow wall and slammed your head against the corner so hard that you had a goose-egg on your forehead for three days. The following nights, when the thoughts began, you would press the purple spot on your forehead so hard that you had to squeeze your eyes shut so the world would stop spinning for just a moment. But now, now you live a life that you own. You find ways to fight the thoughts. You start walking, a lot. When it gets really bad, you count your steps under your breath. You find peace in second-hand bookstores, in reading with your feet tucked in between couch cushions late at night. You are reminded of how important it is to live with ferocious, all-consuming curiosity. You tell a friend about your thoughts and she tells you to look in the mirror and say, “I love you,” to yourself. One night when you’re drunk, you look at your toothpaste splattered reflection and tell yourself that you love yourself. You laugh. It feels silly. You do it again when you’re sober. And again. It feels less silly now. As you walk through London, you feel like the owner of your body rather than the borrower. You go to Covent Garden and listen to a street performer play the violin. You sit against a marble pillar and open your journal and write: I am living the life I have always dreamed of living. You shut the journal and feel proud of yourself for doing something you were so terrified of. You still miss your dog and your sister and the mountains, but in missing home, you have become someone you are proud of, someone you are learning to love. London; the city of rivers and castles, hidden alleyways and wonderfully cramped bookstores, has taught you more than home ever could have.
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