Ever since I was a child, I wanted to go to the UK, London to be exact. It seemed like this end goal and a must see. I blame the books we had growing up, “Tom Browns’ School days”, “The Magic Faraway Tree”. All these books painted a very English narrative, afternoon tea, children with playrooms, nannies, you get the picture. It didn’t help that I went to a Convent with actual English teachers who taught us like we were little girls at English schools. My idea of the UK and the magic around it only intensified when at age 16, my best friend moved there and some other really close friends soon after. This place suddenly stopped being a school girl place of reference based on fictitious characters, it became a place my closest friends moved to, it became this place that everyone went to, so of course the first chance I got, I went off to London Heathrow and my love affair with the UK began.
I thought I fell in love with London… London at Christmas, London in winter, London in Summer, the tube in London, shopping in London, a cute boy in London, connecting with childhood friends who had moved to London. I thought this was where I wanted to live, after all, I loved it right? I was meant to live there and be there and this was meant to be my end goal, but it never really felt like anything except a fun season. I never saw myself living there, all I felt was the excitement of flying into Heathrow and talking about going to London, it never felt like anything beyond that. It didn’t have the magic I wanted it to have, it was just another place I visited over and over again, wanting to belong but never feeling like it was for me. I don’t think London will see me again, though life has taught me to never say never…
