Today I dream of home and not of London anymore*

In case you don't know, I have a terrible memory for numbers and dates.

I could have sworn I left Boston on January 27th, 2012, landed in Heathrow on the 28th, and explored Kingston/Surbiton/Berrylands on the 30th.

But according to my blog, I left on 22nd, arrived on 23rd (in both Iceland and England) and explored London for the first time on the 30th.

Which means I should have done this post last week, as I was leaving home to start my last semester of college. I wonder if that would have been too much, though, seeing as how I was already emotional about all that--and London is an emotional subject of a different sort.

Anyway, as it happens, today is the perfect weather and the perfect feeling for this post. I have work to do and classes to attend, but it's about 40*, foggy, and threatening rain, I brought my brolly to class, and I had my tea this morning.

I miss Berrylands. I miss the Hemmingtons and their lovely little house and the cafes at both ends of the neighborhood, and the pub near the train station--I even miss the rickety old train station.

I miss Surbiton. I miss the hill (okay not really), I miss the pubs, I miss the train station. I miss walking through, soaked to the bone, looking for a hot breakfast because I really, really, really wanted an English breakfast. (I steamed as I took my jacket off and put the umbrella down, the rain misting in the heat of the place. I had coffee and eggs and rashers of bacon. I walked all the way back in sideways-pouring rain; the umbrella made no difference, so I let it fall and let the rain hit me in stinging shots. It was glorious.)

I miss Kingston. The people, the buzz, the classes, the diversity. Boys in suits and Timberland boots, girls in miniskirts and heels (dressed up for class; they wore a different sort of garb at night when they hit up Oceana); girls in my Arabic class in zebra-print hijabs with blingy pins to keep them closed. I miss Ian and my Shakespeare class and assignments like "write about science fiction for 5 pages".

I miss London. The burning buzz of the peoplecarsbusesshoutingtouristscryingchildren. No peace and quiet unless I listened to my music; surrounded with such life, why would I want to close my ears to it? The beautiful, shiny places, all cleaned up and made palatable for the people like me, the outsiders. The backstreets, where Londoners really lived. The bookshops, the vintage, the pubs. Camden Market. The theatres. Standing not 5 feet from Chris Peck in the basement of a pub in Earl's Court. Walking and walking and walking and walking until my feet hurt and my thighs stuck to my jeans.

I want to go back. But I need to let go of this. When I drink Strongbow with my roommate/best friend, I need to stop thinking of pints and chips and the smoke the drifts through the open door as people congregate outside the pub. When I make plans with Danes for Valentine's Day, I need to forget how I spent last year's V-Day, curled up with chocolate and flowers I bought myself and wanting to Skype with him but not being able to. I need to be present. I need to be here.

Happy late/almost anniversary, London. I hope you're doing well, and maybe someday I'll see you again. But for now, goodbye.

*London Still -The Waifs