London, Calling

In many ways, I have chosen a rather unconventional approach to describing my “digital dream vacation”. I have replaced the conditional tense with the present, attempting to depict the scene as if it were happening in the here-and-now (which for many of us is in a state of lockdown, hopes of any real vacation currently inconceivable). I intended for this piece to detail an atmospheric experience of sorts, much like a dream itself. I have chosen to obscure the exact names of places in order to leave your imagination free to roam along with me.

A dream destination typically conjures up hints of the intangible; destinations that we have not and may not ever reach. Ideas collated from a plethora of mediums, whether it be the media or our own imagination, to make a whole truly greater than the sum of its parts. For some it may be a wish to rekindle their first scent of the ocean air, for others the sound of the laugh of someone dear next to them in the mountains. And yet the underlying theme, so painfully common, is the chance to remove oneself from the stressors of modern living in a way which makes life’s daily pressures seem as if they belong on another planet entirely. A dream destination is something that, indisputably, stirs a sense of yearning. A yearning that, during these uncertain times, is felt more prominently than ever before.

My dream destination choice may surprise some but elicit a sense of understanding in others. I choose the city in which I was born and have loved ever since: London. As they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder, and the restrictions imposed by the current UK lockdown have caused many of us to interpret this saying in an entirely new way, including me. I am left dreaming of the comfort and intimacy of the city as opposed to a far-flung, exotic destination that I am yet to visit. The real dream is feeling deeply and intrinsically connected to the ebb and flow of life that runs relentlessly within this city, so much so that it continues to leave me spellbound every day, no matter how many thousands of times I have walked its streets.

However, what was once so achingly familiar now feels hazy around the edges, hazy like a city skyline peppered with the pollution indicative of a surfeit of activity. The home that I was once immersed in has never felt further from my grasp, with the promise of its former glory being no closer than the skyline I so adore.

Through this virtual postcard challenge, I aim to capture the very essence of London life and the core of its character through the eyes of someone who remains devoted to it. If you are a Londoner, I hope that my stream of consciousness may evoke a sense of warm familiarity, and for those who are not, I hope one day you will be able to experience this characterful metropolis for yourself. Until then, please join me on this brief literary foray into the city lights.

Emerging into the city from a London train station is, for me, as electrifying as it is peaceful. London lies fraught with energy under a dense grey sky, threatening rain as it always does in this city. I step out onto the street and am instantly hit with a shock of the familiar. The rumble of black cabs, the clattering of trains snaking across the city, and an unmistakable scent of exhaust fumes punctuate the air with their usual intensity. The evening is creeping in; street lamps flicker on as commuters pour out of their respective offices, faces worn and absent-minded. People brush past me with unforgiving haste as street vendors make attempts in vain to halt the flow of humanity passing through the station entrance.

Across the street rests a minuscule coffee shop, the outlines of three people sitting at the window only just visible through the condensation. The glow of Edison-style lightbulbs within are so inviting, that it is not long before I am drawn inside in pursuit of an oat milk flat white. I weave between two red routemasters on the road and dart in through the door. Soft, instrumental jazz tunes greet me, barely discernible over the lively hum of chatter within. I long to get a book out of my bag and stay a while longer, but something about the evening air summons me back outside.

Hands wrapped around a steaming cup of caffeinated goodness, I am back out on the street and walking in the direction of nowhere in particular. I find that it is good for the soul to roam without a destination every once in a while, comforted in the thought that it is extremely difficult to get truly 'lost' in London. The air of adventure is palpable.

As always, I am struck between the sharp contrast of time periods reflected in the architecture all around me. Classic meets modern in a seamless embrace, leaving me wondering how the impressions of two eras could ever fit together so perfectly. I am in the heart of the city now, eclectic buildings surrounding me from all angles. Sharp shards of glass rise up from the ground, stretching into a sky that is never fully dark, not even at night. They are juxtaposed by languid facades of marble pillars and light stone which seem to remain largely untainted despite the decades that have passed since their creation.

I turn down a narrow cobbled street, illuminated in part by the warm street lamps that have thankfully been preserved in their original gas lamp structure. Bursts of laughter float down the passage, and it is only when I hear the clinking of glasses that I realise that a pub must be nearby. A crowd of people stand around the entrance, spilling off the pavement and slightly into the road. In my eyes, the London pub scene is not all too dissimilar from the al-fresco dining culture so prevalent throughout Europe. The warmth and joviality inherent in these local traditions is much the same, spare a couple of extra layers of clothing for London’s climate, of course.

I make my way back towards the underground station, greeted by an ensemble of suits and high heels as people make their way out for the evening. There is an unparalleled sense of energy at the start of a London night; the scent of spontaneity is rife amongst the incandescent lights. I can see a young couple standing next to a red telephone box, the man leaning against it with an air of nonchalance as they talk. I wonder if this place holds the same significance for them as it does for me.

Now on the platform, I can sense the arrival of the tube train before its lights are visible in the tunnel. There is an unmistakable screeching in the distance, growing ever closer. A strong breeze grips the inside of my coat and my hair whips around my face as the train clatters past in a way that always feels a little too fast to be able to stop in time. Glancing through the carriage windows, I can see that the worst of rush hour has abated. There are still no seats free, but enough room to be able to stand without having one or all of your limbs compressed. As any Londoner will tell you, time is briefly suspended during an underground excursion. It is difficult to accurately pinpoint exactly where under the city you are, but everyone in the carriage seems to be too immersed in thought to care. The time is so very apt for people-watching; you cannot help but feel at least somewhat curious about the lives of the people around you. Is that lady in the corner enjoying her book? Why does the man standing by the door keep checking his watch? So many unanswered questions, so many hypotheses, all within the same few square feet of the carriage. There’s a strange sense of belonging, however momentary, until you hear the announcement for your desired station and you are off on your separate ways again.

Before long, I find myself at the top of a hill, which just so happens to be my favourite viewpoint in the whole city. The view catches my breath, as it always does. All my favourite places and all my favourite people are here within this view. Outlines of buildings somewhat blur into the hazy hues of the city smog, stretching up into the sky which seems so vast and open when compared to walking in the midst of it all. I sit down on the grass and notice that it is slightly dewy to the touch from the night air. Lacing my fingers inbetween the blades of grass, I let my eyes wash over the view. How strange it seems that I do not even need to turn my head to see the whole of London stretched out before me. I notice others around me; some with friends, others alone. All facing in the same direction, quietly observing until the wind becomes slightly too biting and it is time to leave.

I make my way home, albeit reluctantly, but safe in the knowledge that London will always remain awake, even if I am dreaming.

To many, this description may seem like nothing out of the ordinary. And yet, it is in these troubled times that the line between normality and dreaming has been shifted enough to crave the mundane once more. The familiar seems special again. However, in this instance, the familiar has always been special to me. Some might say that this is overly romanticised, and to that I gently remind them of the subjectivity of the human experience. What sparks wonder for some may barely hold a candle to others, and vice versa. I can only hope that everyone kind enough to read this has such a place from which to send a virtual postcard, and if not, shall find one very soon.

“You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford”.

- Samuel Johnson