Being asked to write for this blog felt like such an authentic yes. I think one of the reasons JJ asked me to get involved in the reboot is because she’s seen my eyes widen and heard the zeal in my voice when I talk about my move here.
It’s difficult to explain in words what exactly is the magical essence of London that has me so enamoured with the city. I think it’s best explained in moments.
It’s leaving for my commute a little early, just to feel like I have the city more to myself. It’s the feeling of getting my favourite seat on the bus: top deck, front seat, right-hand side. What feels like panoramic views of the city where so much has happened. It’s driving through majestic Bank, trying to inhale the grit, the charm, the grandiosity – the aura of so many who walked these streets before me.
It’s walking down the wrong alleyway and happening upon a bustling courtyard; the murmuration of the here and now. It’s the glance and smirk exchanged with a fellow passenger on the Underground while a homeless man recites Silent Night using a traffic cone as a trumpet – just to make sure we are, in fact, experiencing the same reality.
It’s bombing it around Finsbury Park on an e-bike with my best friend while the sun melts into evening. Or walking alone in South Kensington, when the world comes into focus. I remember I’m here. The phone box looks extra vermillion, the leaves extra glossy – and everything feels extra… possible?
It’s the hour between the dog and the wolf, when a fox runs across the street in front of me, catches my eye for a second, and then disappears into the concrete expanse ahead. It’s the parakeets nesting in an exposed pipe on the mid-70s wall in front of my window. Because why not?
It’s the local alcoholic I’ve seen get hit by bikes and kicked out of pubs. He helps on the market’s fruit and veg stall. Eventually, I befriend him.
It’s the wave of fresh air that hits me on the Tube escalator. It’s happening across the man who spends his days jumping from one bus to another, always reciting an ad hoc speech, gerrymandering the commuters about one thing or another.
It’s chuckling as I watch a would-be mass brawl – more like the Teletubbies attempting a drunken royal rumble – outside the police station, of all places, on my way to the club.
It’s being engulfed by a protest, or swept away in a nameless sea of blue shirts on Liverpool Street. It’s feeling, palpably, the present moment. It’s the scratching of that inherent itch, the thing we all long for: being part of something bigger than ourselves.
It’s community, it’s carnage, it’s chaos – but, in a way, copacetic.
Before I moved here, I always walked around looking at the floor. In London, I can’t help but look up.
