7.30 | Playing favourites: 10 days in London
Musings on plasters, humps and impostor syndrome, written from my bed in London's Borough of Islington.
Gosh, I love this place. I chose London as my first stop on this European tour for a reason: It would allow me to adjust to a new timezone and lifestyle somewhere I’m comfortable in (yes, I #studied #abroad here in 2016 and it #changed #me), a place that would offer a more gradual transition away from the chaotic New York City lifestyle.
Still, the differences between London and New York are staggering. My top three favourite things about London happen to be some of the things I most dislike in New York: parks, public transit and grocery stores.
Greenery galore.
The thriving flora and fauna in London tell me that overwatering your plants must be a good idea. In my first ten days, it’s rained more than it hasn’t. And that’s okay. Why? Because London rain is chic, impossibly chic. It’s different than rain in any other city. This rain enhances its surroundings: the trees, shrubbery and every bed of flowers look even more lush when slick with droplets of water, and the brick façades of stately townhouses appear to soften when damp, making them seem even more inviting and — dare I say — cosy.
When it’s not raining and I’m not working, I’m often exploring London’s abundant green spaces. There are so many public parks and fields here! There are more than three parks less than a kilometer away from my flat alone — close enough for me to run to, my nine minute mile pace worsening to an 11 minute average so I can stop to take half-blurry photos of everything pretty I see: rosebushes and pink hydrangeas sprouting from ordinary shrubbery, perfectly manicured flower boxes bordering stained-glass windows, majestic trees — some likely hundreds of years old — forming a canopy of leaves above a walking path. I’ve already spent hours on various park benches, reading, pondering and people-watching. I’ve also started a new tradition for myself: Get a Treat and Find a Park Bench. I buy a double chocolate-chip cookie from Ottolenghi, or a still-warm cinnamon roll from Buns from Home, and head to the nearest bench. Sweets just taste better in the park!
Public transit is pleasant.
Riding the overground feels like riding a monorail at Disneyworld, with better views. Passengers sit, talking among themselves quietly, exiting and entering the train with polite nods. I could ride the overground for hours. Earlier this week, I was on the way to meet a friend for dinner, and I missed my stop because I was staring out the window (and wearing noise-cancelling AirPods). I had to walk an extra 20 minutes in the rain. But it’s chic London rain, not dirty, smelly New York rain (see above), so it was fine.
And the bus. The bus! Shiny red and double-decker, the bus looks like a toy brought to life. I’m awash with childlike giddiness when stepping aboard. If you’re able to score a seat at the front of the second level, riding the bus feels like you’re zooming above the city — and on the “wrong” side of the street, too. I’ve recently deducted points from this mode of transport, though, because I’m not sure they all have air conditioning. This weekend, I hopped on a bus that ended up feeling quite stuffy, and I felt kind of trapped — like when you get into a subway car without air conditioning, and the doors close before you can do anything about it.
The underground is my favorite mode of transport. Everything about the tube fascinates me. Tapping in and out. The gap. Being kindly reminded to mind! the! gap! The station names all sound impossibly posh, announced by the same pleasant but cool female voice: Piccadilly Circus. Charing Cross. Kentish Town. Gloucester Road. Waterloo.
I mean, Ronkonkoma just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Grocery stores.
At Sainsbury’s and Waitrose and even Tesco, British produce is always high-quality and fresh. Arugula — rocket here — is peppery. Raspberries are plump, but not soggy. Limes are bright green and bursting with juice, not dried-out like those you’ll sometimes see in supermarkets at home. Eggplant is aubergine; zucchini is courgette. In the dairy aisle, you’ll find crème fraîche, countless other varieties of cream, little pots of French yogurt, and so much halloumi — a favorite cheese of mine that’s ever popular here but kind of hard to find in New York. Fancy Irish butter is affordable. And, best of all:
UNREFRIGERATED EGGS.
I was obsessed with eggs when I studied abroad here. According to Insider, the U.S. requires eggs sold on supermarket shelves to be sanitized to prevent the spread of salmonella. This isn’t the case in Europe, where farmers prioritize producing clean eggs “at the point of collection, rather than trying to clean them afterwards,” as the U.S. does.
The unwashed eggs just taste better, at least to me. The yolks here are bright orange, almost neon. A few of those in a soft scramble, with a generous pat of salted Irish butter? YUM.
I roll my eyes at myself a little when I say this, dear reader, but I have to be honest with you: I will always geek out over vocabulary, spelling and grammar. It’s the overachieving English major in me. I adore the way words work here.
The bathroom is the loo.
Speed bumps are humps.
Band-aids are plasters.
Diapers are nappies.
And let’s not forget British slang, of which I have extensive knowledge, thanks to my brief but impactful obsession with Love Island UK (#notsponsored): bruv, fit, mug off.
I haven’t yet adopted an English keyboard on my phone or laptop, but I’ve been catching myself speaking and phrasing my sentences differently lately. I don’t run errands, I pop into stores. I don’t ask where the bathroom is, I inquire where I might be able to find the toilet. Instead of requesting the check, I ask for the bill. I’ve even adopted a few phrases and mannerisms from my British flatmate Amaris, a fellow journalist:
“One hundred percent!” I now gush in agreement to literally anything anyone says.
“Shall I grab more [insert household item here] from the shop?” I ask, shooing away my Long Island accent from the word (“shaaaahp”) in favor of a crisp short “o.”
“I got more rubbish bags, they’re next to the toilet xx,” I type in a Whatsapp message.
It’s practically involuntary. Even Gmail is encouraging me (see below).
You’ve probably noticed by now that I’m writing here a lot less frequently than I initially promised. I’m sorry about that Thanks for bearing with me! (I’m trying to apologize less.) It’s partly because I battle a demon I suspect many of you are familiar with, too: Impostor Syndrome. (Can’t it have a sexier name?)
Writing is often a struggle for me. I judge my words before I even let my fingers type them.
The first ten days of this new chapter have been filled with joy, fear, excitement, anxiety, bliss and sadness. There’s so much newness, which feels simultaneously refreshing and overwhelming. Some days, I feel productive and on the right path. Others, I’m completely, utterly lost. And I think that’s all normal. Our highs are only highs because we’ve felt the lows. (You can probably find that last sentence written in script on some wooden sign in a clearance bin at Home Goods.)
Has everyone seen Barbie? If you haven’t, I’m a little mad at you. I saw it alone. Twice. I was a major Barbie girl back in the day. (During peak Covid, I even dug up my old Barbie dolls in my parents’ basement and played with them. For several days. It was a dark time.) But I think the movie will touch even those who never had a Barbie.
At one point in the film, Gloria (America Ferrera) tells Barbie (Margot Robbie), “That’s life. It’s all change.”
If that’s true, I’m experiencing a whole lot of life lately.
Yours,
Chloe xx
Next week’s post (FINALLY!): What am I even doing here? Fellowship, freelancing and freaking out about it all. xxxxxx