I find travel writing to be a strange specification. I mean, yes, it’s what I am currently right now trying to do but I’m still trying to find a way of doing so without using “and today I saw…”
I have a tendency to waffle, and repeat myself, and talk about cliche things such as feelings and also cliches.
And then I met Geoff in a hostel in London. He writes, and he is also the quietest snorer I have encountered in my travels. And he told me he writes about what places mean to him. And this made me to think about what London means to me.
I guess to go all Year 12 English on the matter, London symbolises my dreams. Having never been here before, all I knew throughout my teenage years was the fact that I wanted to fuck off to London as soon as I possibly could. I saw London as this dirty and realistic city, where I could be a small fish in a big pond and have the best years of my life doing what I pleased and no one would give a shit. This was my inner small town girl speaking.
I still see London as a place I can thrive. I can see the beauty in the back streets, and the heart in the city’s history, and the cute men in their suits on the tube. I love that I can now glide off an escalator without an awkward out of time one two step. I love the red telephone boxes and the bobby cabs and the queen. I love the history, the culture, the people. I love that it’s dirty and real.
So if it were up to me, I would stay without a second thought – the only issue is how to legally do so. I’ll try to pull a boy with a passport on Tinder.