Travel tale #7: My London
A love letter and visual diary
I can’t remember the first time I visited London. I went there on holiday many times in my younger years, living between Chinese food at Princess Garden and McDonald’s Big Macs; being exhausted by the long walks we would take from Old Marylebone Road to the edges of Oxford Street; crouching against the shelves of HMV while my dad browsed through CDs; watching the parades at Notting Hill Carnival; skating and falling down at Queens Ice; playing arcade games at Trocadero. Some of my London doesn’t even exist anymore, or in the same form. And yet, all these memories are layered over and preserved by another group of memories— from the 13 years I lived in the city, starting as a keen and open-hearted 18-year-old.
In London, I studied at university; started and changed my career; fell in love a couple of times; built great friendships and experienced an abundance of culture. I experienced what it meant to become my own person, after a sheltered childhood in Lagos. I became independent, then co-dependent, then independent again. I discovered how much I love art, literature, music, theatre, as I wandered through the many spaces the city keeps aside for these things. I made friends and lost other ones. I built a community strong enough to withstand the separation from my family. I discovered religion for myself and cried many times at church. I bounced along the streets on sunny, promising, summer days and struggled to move myself on days when my world felt dark. I lived the majority of my adulthood within the dotted lines of this city. I am inextricably linked to it. As I described it once, in London I turn a corner and run into a memory. And yet, I can’t remember the first time I visited it.
I left two years ago for a career opportunity in Paris. It was easier to leave because I felt like I had seen too much of London; like we had become overly familiar with each other, stuck in a routine. I also knew that the city was mine, and I would always come back to it. I forgot how it felt to be new there, and I took for granted all the things I love about it. Moving to Paris, confronting the scars under the sheen of this other capital, filled me with a longing for the places and people that made up my life in London. I felt almost physical unease at times as I watched the city move on without me, seeing get-togethers with friends, or exhibitions or plays that I would miss. In the last two years, I have returned many times, and have finally been able to appreciate it in a different way; in a way that is akin to the wonder and attention of a first-time visitor.
Each time I come back, I am rushing to re-enter my old memories and revisit my favourite haunts; squeezing many friends, many meals, in the space of two to four days. I leave exhausted, empty, but somehow, I have been filled. I also realise how fast the city changes. I try to go back to restaurants I liked, while my friends inform me of new places to add to my list. I don’t have the luxury to take risks, simply wanting to recapture the tastes that seemed unforgettable when I lived there. Almost every time, I go on Embankment bridge, and I stop to look across the Thames at the Southbank Centre. Something happens to my heart whenever I am there. That building, that view, is the embodiment of my cultural blossoming. I went there so many times for literature talks, concerts, exhibitions, that I was a member at some point. When I behold it, I see the way the city changed me. I see the times I tried to study for university exams at the Poetry Library; the times I listened to inspiring conversations with authors like Zadie Smith, Khaled Hosseini, Mohsin Hamid; the time I danced after heartbreak at an Angelique Kidjo concert during the WOW festival. And just being there is enough to fill me.
Last week, I took someone around London for their first time; and it was so interesting for me to see it through another person’s eyes. I was desperate to summarise my love for the city in a five-day tour, walking so much that the balls of my feet began to hurt. We went to Primrose Hill, admiring the skyline at night; we walked through Marylebone and browsed the shelves of Daunt; we went through Camden market and Brixton Village, taking in the energy, the colour of both areas; we made our way from St James Park and through the streets of Covent Garden; we followed the river from Southbank all the way to London Bridge; we walked through Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Circus, Chinatown; we went past my university and my second and third year apartments; we saw ‘Phantom of the Opera’ on the West End; we ate Chinese, Indian, Caribbean, Nigerian, and of course Nando’s. We exhausted ourselves with wonder. And even with all that, there was still so much that had been left. So much that would have to remain for the next time, like the B-side of a great record. Seeing London in this way brought back a flood of memories, but also gave me a fresh perspective as I listened to my friend’s first impressions of the city. It was the layering of a first time I can’t remember, and every time after.
I’m back to Paris now, with the steps on my fitbit, the slight weight gain, the photos and the full heart to show for it. In a few weeks, the memories will lose their sharpness and blend into the general feeling I have for the city.
But even then, one thing would still be true: London will always, always have my heart.
P.S: I shared pieces about the two other places I call home. A visual story on Lagos here, and a reflection on Paris, here.
Prompt:
What city will you always return to? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber). I would love to discuss it with you! I would also post it on the Instagram page if you’d like me to.
I enjoyed reading this and learning about your London life, Ehae! It’s a city I don’t know too well but I can feel the way it pulls at your heartstrings through your account here. Thanks for sharing!