Dear London, I still want to live here.

Sam and I arrived in London on Friday afternoon for a 10-day escape. We arrived with no plans—other than an appointment for each of us to get a haircut. We’ve woken up each morning with only a faint idea of what we hoped to do that day, and with no pressure to complete a single thing. Bliss.

We’ve slipped easily into life here. The familiarity is eery—like something from a dream, or a previous life. It is so all-encompassing that we’ve both forgotten at moments that we actually live in a place that is so, so different. It’s like slipping on a forgotten old sweater. It’s like a habit. It’s like home.

We tell ourselves that we could live here. We imagine Mishka chasing squirrels in Regent’s Park, or jogging along delightful, historical streets. Eating sushi, or Indian, or Thai, or Ethiopian whenever we want. And trusting that we’ll be able to find broccoli at the grocery store, no matter the day, or the time of year.

Places like London make our life in the Foreign Service possible. Not because they give the developing world something to aspire to (which they likely do…), but because I couldn’t truly appreciate London (or Chicago, or DC, or Sydney) if they didn’t offer some sort of refuge. I can live in Almaty, Kazakhstan because I know that these other places exist. 

So maybe I don’t want to live in London—I want it to be available to flirt with, though. I want to fantasize about our happy life together, send it cute little love notes, and say “I loove London!” in an overly-exaggerated, girly way. I’m crushing on London, and I like it that way.

{Above: Photo taken at London Transport’s Lost Property Office}