23.11.13 – Finally, after all the troubles and the craziness of the past three months, I made it to London. It was my birthday/graduation gift to myself. I wanted to be generous to me. After all, I deserved it.
Oh yeah, by the way, I graduated on the 20th of November: AWESOME! (If you want to have an idea of what I looked like, this is me on the big day: https://scontent-b-ams.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/1477804_10152001080558604_1468790344_n.jpg). It was like the greatest feeling: I felt relieved, happy, lighter and somehow a little more accomplished. It was MY day. It was all about me and no one else. My people were there for me. And all I could was smile and laugh and smile again. And eat. And, of course, drink. A lot. But anyway this is not the purpose of this post.
Going back to topic one, yes, I went back to London. One random day I found myself on easyjet.com looking for tickets to London (well, it wasn’t exactly a casualty, but, whatever, these are futile details no one wants to hear about). So, anyway, I found these cheap-ish tickets and impulsively bought them. Cause, you know, I’m rich, I can afford random plane tickets in a rush of excitement (in case you’re wondering, no, I’m not. I’m broke as fuck and buying those tickets meant goodbye fancy phone I’d been dreaming of for ages). I didn’t exactly know how it would have felt like to be back. I just knew I needed it. And having that certainty helped me going through some STRESSFUL moments I’ve had to deal with here in my well-known prison.
I landed at 1.15 pm and it felt SO GOOD. The pilot said something like “We hoped you enjoyed the flight. Welcome home!”. And that was it. That was exactly how I felt. I am not exactly sure I can explain what I felt. It was a rush of tremendous varied feelings. To be concise though, it is most definitely true that the first thing I thought was “Man, I’m finally home!”. It felt right to be there and being surrounded by all those tourists and newcomers staring at the beauty of London in awe and adoration felt weird. I again was feeling like London was mine. And everything in London was mine too. I was proud of London. And I loved it when people asked me for information I was actually able to give (to be clear, that never happened in my hometown…). On the bus to Victoria I stared at the world outside the windows and it felt natural that I was there. Like I was supposed to be there and nowhere else. Again, it’s impossible to explain it. You have to experience it to understand what I’m talking about.
As days went by, I lit up and felt alive. Glad to be able to go out and enjoy the breath-taking sunny London I had ahead of me. The first two days, Primark-shopping-break aside, I spent most of the time walking. I went all the way from Bond Street to Oxford Street and Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus to Trafalgar Square to Westminster and then back again, walking on the Strand. Usual routes I’d take while living there. It’s crazy how easily I got back to my habits, to the infinite walks and the ever-lasting minutes sitting in Trafalgar observing what’s around.
And I’ve seen my friends. My London family. And it felt perfect. We were a family again. Like no time had passed by. Like I was back for good (man, do I wish I were!). Like that was meant to be that way only. The predrinks, the parties, Winter Wonderland, the dinners, the beers and the singing at the karaoke on Thurs. (Speaking of which, Good Life, Sara? Really? Best, guaranteed way to make me cry like a baby; which, clearly, I did…). Everything felt right and natural. On my (second) last night in London, we were connected again and leaving felt SO bad. Even worse than the first time. I did not wanna cry, I swear. I wanted to enjoy the night and sing and laugh and have fun and drink and not think about the morning after and the bus to Stansted and the flight. But then a song came up (Coldplay – The Scientist, “Nobody said it was easy. It’s such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would have been this hard.”) and I started crying and just couldn’t stop. And right after that, while I was still desperately crying, we were all up on the stage singing Good Life: the Erasmus theme song. And tears kept on coming. It was great. but it tore me up.
I haven’t decided whether this week has been a total disaster or a total blast for my psyche. A part of me would be willing to let go of everything and move there and work in some random Pret a Manger (I mean, they’re basically everywhere in London). The other part of me wants to do it the right way, though. You know, study hard and deal with it as a grown-up with concrete professional aspirations. And I believe I’m letting this second part win. And I will do my best to be back as soon as possible.
In the meantime, will I go back anytime soon? I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m having for breakfast tomorrow, let alone whether I’ll be back soon or not. Plausibly, and hopefully, I will (if my friends guarantee me a roof over my head). Plausibly I’ll have other first nights and other last nights, other hungovers and other drunken talks. Plausibly. Only time will tell though.
See you soon, London. See you soon.
Just words. 