In London Love, For Real

London, like Walt Whitman, contains multitudes.

I went to Greenwich Market on the overground today, passing by Canary Wharf along the way (definitely my next planned destination). I got to thinking about Notting Hill, and the Strand, and Soho, and Brick Lane, and Kensington, and realizing that every region is strikingly distinctive, each charming for an entirely different set of reasons. And that’s why people love London.

And that’s why, today, I finally fell in love with London. For its aesthetics, for its cultural diversity, for its multitudes.

Not an Anglophile or any-other-phile by nature, I came here for the opportunities, the proximity to other countries and, admittedly, the English language–not the culture.

I’ve spent the last three months falling all too easily into a schedule, soon shedding my homesickness and honeymoon feelings for intern responsibilities and schoolwork. I lost myself in thoughts in the Tube, fell into a commuter coma, succumbed to exhaustion early most evenings.

A fleeting view of London’s industrial Venice and the kiss of a chicken samosa released me from my catatonic state. I have so much more to see.

I’m ready to be a residential tourist again.


I bought a set of these pillows (with red font) at the market. The significance just occurred to me.


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