You know that saying about how it doesn’t matter where you are because the only thing that matters is who you’re with? I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but it simply isn’t true. There are so many incredible places in this world; you should go experience each and every one that you possibly can. Don’t get me wrong, I love the people that I’ve gotten to travel with, too, but I’ve only been abroad for two months and I can’t even explain in words how much my perspective has changed. You will experience things you could never imagine, feel things you can’t describe and, inevitably, you will change.
Each and every one of these places has had its own unique trademark—something that sticks with me after I’m back—something I write down in my journal, something I’ve tucked into a pocket of my purse to take back home. In the case of my trip to London, these memories are countless. I am not lying when I say I loved London. It was my favorite (and most expensive) city yet.
First, there were the comforts of home. People in London speak English! The wave of relief that accompanies those familiar words washed over us the instant we stepped into our hostel. We didn’t have to discuss the proper verb tense with which to address the staff; we didn’t have to think of that one word that we swore fit this situation exactly; we didn’t even have to say “Grazie”. Not one word of Italian passed through my lips for five blissful days. We also ate burritos and hamburgers and drank sugary Starbucks drinks that seem even sweeter than I remembered… maybe the espresso is getting to me! It’s the simple things. I walk in a door, and I can say whatever I want to communicate. This is a feeling I think we all take for granted until it’s gone.
There was also history aplenty to be absorbed in the streets of London. I still can’t believe I stood in the room where Victoria first met Albert. I also sat in the exact place she sat as she heard the news she would be Queen of England. I saw the tower where Henry VIII had his wives beheaded. I saw the crown jewels that have been passed down through generations of monarchs, but still have the power to take your breath away.
There was also the sheer beauty of London. The Tower Bridge lights up against the night sky. The statues and gates outside of Buckingham palace glimmer in the sunlight that peaks through the clouds. The Kensington Gardens stretch farther than the eye can see. The leaves in Hyde Park part in perfect little pathways of orange and red and yellow. The view from the London Eye of the way the Thames weaves its way through the city that just can’t be captured in a photograph—no matter how hard you try.
In addition to all of this, the people were truly delightful. On the first night we were in London, we saw Les Misérables, and I sat next to the sweetest old man from Wales who had come to see the show for the fourth time in London with his wife. When I told him I was from Oklahoma, his eyes got so big I almost started to worry for his health (not really, but you get the picture). He then explained that he had seen Oklahoma! the musical twice, and he absolutely loved it. We went on for the rest of intermission, comparing Europe and the United States. After the show, he thanked me for the conversation and wished me a happy stay in London.
The next unforgettable moment was a conversation I just overheard while I was standing on the porch at the Tate Modern museum. We had just gone through an exhibit and, unfortunately, I can’t say I had gotten much out of it. The people behind us were talking about art, so I listened in. I was honestly hoping I would glean some bit of understanding of modern art but as it turns out, they were just as stumped as I was. One of the older British men said the following and I think it’s going to be my working definition of art for the foreseeable future: “I don’t know what art is, but I know what I want it to do for me; I want it to change my perspective of the world.” That’s what I want. That’s what art is. That isn’t what I saw when I looked at the red square in the middle of the blank white canvas or the yellow fence on the wall or, best yet, the clay poop on the ground. And that’s okay. I’m not the only one who doesn’t get modern art.
I’m also not the only one who’s in love with London.
I can’t wait to go back.