London

“When a man grows tired of London, he has grown tired of life.”

This quote runs through my mind every day. London is always on my mind. In fact, I've had more than a couple friends tell me they were tired of hearing about it. But it's a part of me. So in order for my random posts about to make sense, let me give you a little background.

When I was in high school I was fortunate enough to participate in two People to People Student Ambassador trips. When I was sixteen, and fresh out of my first long-term relationship (3 years… we were crazy!), I went to Europe. This was the summer before my senior year of high school, and so between brooding over the loss of my first love, and the terror and excitement of impending adulthood and freedom- I was doing some soul searching.

Our trip took us through England, France and Wales, over the course of three weeks. The trip started with a three day stay in London. We visited the British museum, Windsor Castle, Buckingham Palace, watched the changing of the gaurd.. all your basic touristy stuff. We hardly got to take the city in.

But something about that city changed me. Somethnig I couldn’t and still can’t place my finger on. It was as if my heart was saying “Yes. This is what you need. This is where you are supposed to be.” but I was too young to understand it.

I enjoyed the rest of our trip- Castles, Stonehenge, rolling hills, city lights. I saw Paris (the city of every wanderlusting young girls dreams) and recieved a kiss from a young man from Nebraska atop the Eiffel Tower, and oohed and aahed over the many sights those three countried held.

But when I came home? It was only London I thought about.

For 3 years I fantisized about returning. It wasn’t the places I had seen that were calling me back. Not the castles or the shops. Not the museums or the parks. It was the feeling. That whisper in my heart “Go! Go!” I just couldn’t seem to silence it. I did not understand WHY this place was so imbedded into my soul.

Then one day, I decided I had to go back. There was no choice, no hesitation. Just concrete, absolute, necessity.

I cashed in the bonds left to me by my late grandmother, and nearly emtptied my savings. I met with my advisors (as I was now in college) and set the whole thing up.  And there was only one comprhendable thought amongst all the mixed emotions:

I was finally going home.

And after months of reading every website, every guide book, and every study abroad newsletter the day finally came.

My love took me to the airport at midnight. We kissed goodbye at the security gate and suddenly I began to cry. I was terrified. I told him to take me home. I wasn’t ready. It was only three weeks apart, but I suddenly realized “What if I was wrong? What if it wasn’t everything I had hoped for? Everything I remembered?” I was travelling across the world, going through nine time zones, comepletly alone, to a city I hadn’t seen since I was 16. And even then- I had only seen for three days with the aid of a tour leader and 30+ people my age that I had gotten to know ahead of time. This could be the stupidest thing I had EVER done.

28 hours later I arrived, sleepless, into Heathrow International Airport. As the plane touched down I let out a deep sigh of relief.

This was right. This was SO right.

I spent the next three weeks in a  state of hazy, blissful, comfort. Instead of jetlag and a serious rejection of the 9 hour time difference, I woke up early each morning, grabbed a tea, took a walk to Kensington Gardens, and sat upon a bench on the flower walk and read the book “Art and Physics“. Then, I would return to my dorm, shower, and get ready for my class on the musuems and galleries of London.

I missed Nic. I missed Megs. I missed my family and all my other friends. But even despite my longing for familliar company, I was truly at ease.

I felt safe in the city. Even alone at night. I don’t typically feel safe ANYWHERE at night.

The city had so much to do, and I had so little time to try to do it all!

I went to the British Museum, The National Gallery, The Victoria and Albert Museum, The Courtauld Gallery, Somerset House, The National Portrait Gallery, Tate Modern. I saw Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” at the Globe Theatre, “Les Miserables” at the Queen’s Theatre, “Avenue Q” , “Peter Pan” in Kensington Gardens, and last but certainly not least, Jude Law’s performance of “HAMLET” at the Wyndhams theatre in the West End. I stood outside with thousands of screaming fans to watch the stars of “Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince” walk into the world premiere in Leicester Square. I visited the tourist sights, shopped at Harrods, browsed at Fortnum & Masons, and so much more.

I even made a friend, despite my normal apprehension to attemptin to bond with people. Mandy (or Mandolin as I call her) was a fellow art geek from Lubbock, TX who shared an unspeakable understanding of my infatuation with the “Big Smoke”. We were soul sisters in our city of the heart.

Parting was “such sweet sorrow” when it finally came time to go home. I was excited to see Nic and my friends and family- and to share all of my pictures and stories. But I was so sad to wave good bye to my new friends, and this wonderous place of my dreams.

When the plane left the tarmack I heard the whisper in my heart again. My adventures here were not over. And part of my soul stayed behind in the city on the Thames.