And now click your heels three times

A
year ago almost to the day I wrote on this website And then I had a new life in Rome. This is HILARIOUS, because that
was a mere 365 days ago and yet it feels like another existence. I suppose it
was, in many ways. Is that allowed? Can a person live multiple lives as
multiple people without being Matt Damon in The
Talented Mr. Ripley?

Am I
going to have to bash you over the head with an oar as soon as you’ve finished
reading this? HOW AWKWARD.

I am
days away from typing And then I had a
new life in London, and I’m freaking PUMPED about it, which is terrifying,
because I have never been so single-mindedly PUMPED about anything in this way ever
before. In fact, seldom has the word PUMPED ever been concurrently appropriate
for anybody’s enthusiasm and yet so white-British-middle-class inappropriate at the same time too. I
shouldn’t be saying PUMPED because I am not a Canadian cheerleader, and yet hey
Internet! Look at all the fucks I give!

!!!!!!!

Compared
to how PUMPED I feel right now, everything else just becomes… well. Everything else.

Flying
to Sri Lanka at 18 years old, just because? Shoulder-shrug.

Moving to Detroit having never even been to the U.S.A, based on the fact that I’d met
some Americans I liked more than most of my fellow countrymen? Whatever.

New
job in Rome? No big deal.

Stretches
of summers in France? Backpacking India? Hosing most South-Asian countries in
my been-there-done-that list? Jobs in
Renaissance villages and baby sections in toy shops, work experience in big universities
and that time my family owned a
jam-making factory? IRRELEVANT.

Sometimes,
when I meet new people or I look back over old Facebook photos and blog posts I
am reminded that I have an incredibly fortunate gift of a life. I have a bigger
collection of places lived and friends made and experiences undergone in my 26
years than many people amass in 80. And yet, I don’t ever really believe it, you know? It takes something
external to nudge me in the direction of gratitude. I take it all so for
granted.

BUT
NOT WITH THIS ADVENTURE.

I’m
head-over-heels, caution-to-the-wind, don’t-give-a-damn BALLS TO THE MOTHER
FUCKING WALL committed to moving to London and doing something I am passionate
about, and in said 26 years I can
count on less than three fingers the things I’ve been so devoted to before
now.

I
feel good about it. I want it; I’m hungry for it.

I’ve
made a decision to be happy about it.

I
popped down for the afternoon this week, for a job interview (HEY-UNIVERSE-
HOOK ME UP, YEAH?) and although I knew I had a ton of people I could call to
hang with whilst I killed the six hours between post-interview nausea and
evening train home, I didn’t. I wanted to walk around the city, my city, and just look. Alone. I wanted
to stand beside the river and pick out the landmarks I knew and make a mental
note of the ones I didn’t so that I could learn. I wanted to loiter outside of
interesting looking cafes tucked away in side-streets designed only for those
with nowhere to be. I needed to sit on benches and get off at unplanned tube
stops and stand next to the tallest buildings I could find to stare up, revelling
in feeling insignificant and tiny.

I
forget how much I adore London. It’s the freakin' promised land as far as I’m concerned.

I
always feel the same when I get into St. Pancras, off the train. I walk
self-consciously, aware that I’m not from
here, and where that’s where I get my pleasure from in any other city- being an outsider, with permission to
explore and wonder and be confused-with London I just want to belong
already. And so I stand awkwardly to get my underground day-pass, knowing that
a Real Londoner would have an Oyster card. I refuse to look at a map because
Real Londoner knows where they have to be and how to get there. I check out my
reflection in shop windows because I’m not London
enough- I should be trendier, care less, have different shoes on.

I’m
not that girl. Normally, I don’t give two hoots about belonging, but- and here is the kicker- I wonder how
much of that was actually the opposite? Knowing I didn’t belong and so wearing
my differences as a shield to protect from having to pick a home, a routine, a
path?

I don’t
know the answer, but do you know what? As the original black-or-white
EVERYTHING HAS TO FIT INTO A BOX girl, I’m kinda of enjoying just figuring it out.

And
like I said, I’m terrified, because I’ve never really let myself desperately
want something before. I didn’t want to seem- well. DESPERATE.

But
sod it. I’m quite prepared to commit, to be terrified, to risk getting my heart
broken by the city of dreams just to say that I did it. That I put myself out
there for my own biggest risk of them all- feeling
like I’m home.

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