An Unreadable Rambling.

You would think, moving to the other side of the world, there may be a bit of a plan. But months on, and the commonly asked question “what brings you to London?” that seems to be on everyone’s lips is still met with a shrug of the shoulders, a non plussed retort and a stare into the distance. There is no answer. This isn’t some stereotypical bewilderment, an act of Kiwi so long plaguing our small nation, our inability to really stand confidently on our own two feet, to put ourselves out there as self assured individuals. This isn’t a result of being brought up in a small nation, geographically isolated and emotionally reserved. This is just, me.

I can’t really tell you what brought me here. It’s not some big secret or a massive ‘whoop-dee-doo’ excitement that causes vocal failure on a high scale, no stammering or sweaty palms restricting the true desires from spilling out. It just so happens that I don’t really have a justifiable reason for my journey to the land of Buckingham (and, of no less importance, Beckingham) Palace.

After a wonderful year in Paris; which I can only simply explain as the unequivocal, best 364 days of my life; I had caught hold of that unbridled adrenaline of living in a big city pumping tangibly with life. No discredit to New Zealand, and one of its finer gems Christchurch, but I think it’s more than just me who has been sucked into the allure of Paris and the Pom. For some reason, I trusted that ‘feeling’ as enough to follow. Money, accommodation, lifestyle all seemed small cake in comparison to the gateau of life I was striving after. Four days in London on a winter escape from Paris was enough to validate my plan of continuing life there. I pictured myself in the corporate suits with a smart satchel and Pret A Manger coffee in hand, dashing through the crowds from the tube, sashaying down the busy roads high on big city life (and caffeine, inevitably). With the end of my fantastic (and flukey) year-long French visa looming, London caught me by the reins and refused its stronghold. Other options swayed in and out but London remained, as there as ever.

Which is what brings me to this returning, and perhaps rhetorical question, of what I am actually doing here. I thought it may be something that needed pen to paper, or rather fingers to keys (technology has a habit of ruining the best of clichés) in order for me myself to understand the explanation behind my current whereabouts. I thought writing things down might help to tell me why I’m here rather than others asking me the question with raised eyebrows and quizzical eyes just expecting me to know what I’m doing. As if that’s ever been the case…  

What follows is a journey. I warn, this is no iconic, charming Hemingway, there will be no Cinderella/Audrey Hepburn romantic moments, no glamorous Monroe tales, but a blubbering, stammered, possibly awkward, shameful and embarrassing string of events, moments and most importantly, memories. I hereby promise nothing. This is MY tale, and MY journey to maybe, possibly, hopefully, finding out just what it is that brings me to the land of corgies, scones and omnipresent telephone boxes (those things are seriously never used). This is me living, loving and more often than not, laughing (frequently AT myself), and with any luck, finding some fun along the way.

This is ‘Welcome to London; Keep Calm If You Can’.

People always begin at the start, and truthfully, I never understood why. Sometimes the start can be boring, and why start with boring. Arriving in October, I have managed to successfully live in London for 3 months. Summing up 90 days, I officially have a job, an apartment, and most incredibly, an NHS number. I have a National Security number, a Boots card, a local supermarket, (a local homeless man) and points on my Tesco club card. I’m practically a fully fledged tea drinking, scone eating, Tube riding Brit. I scowl at the tourists clogging the pavement on Oxford St and I run for buses when I know the next one will likely arrive in less than two minutes. A passerby would think, ‘wow, look at that British girl, she lives here’.

And then they would hear me speak. Illusion shattered.

I would be metaphorically shifted to the tourist pile. I would be back to having Tomato sauce on my fush’n’chups, save the vinegar. I would have to add mulk to my tea, rather than drink it black. I would be ditching the daily health kick salad for something with breed and buttar. The strong accent breaks barriers, and not the good kind. Three months on, and there is no escaping where I really come from. Even if I wanted to leave the origins of my birthplace behind, my hopes would be brutally dashed the minute I opened my mouth. (Though in all honesty the silence doesn’t work so well either, a mere stare at “parles-tu francais?” gives off worse vibes than any accent laden answer. Trust me.)

But to counter my doubts, I really do live like a Brit. I get up before the sun (which is barely saying much, I think its past lunch time some days before the sun bothers to shine through the pollution).  I ride the tube to work, joining the other suit wearers at the crack of dawn, all unhappy, all reading their Kindles or those absurd newspapers handed out at every Tube entrance (which might as well be an M&S flyer. Challenge: find an actual article hidden amongst the age-defying make-up and golf sets for those on the brink of their mid-life crisis. Success means someone at ‘Metro’ isn’t doing their job right). But anything to avoid eye contact and God forbid, c-o-m-m-u-n-i-c-a-t-i-o-n, with the other passengers. If there’s no beer, there’s no social interactions. Take me to a Pub and buy me a pint, and then we’ll spin some yarns, yawns the British collective.

Though there is a plus side to riding one of the busiest tubes to the centre of London, not to brag, but I think I work in one of the most beautiful parts of London. It’s arriving at the Oxford Circus tube each morning and walking down Oxford St to Soho square that remains one of my favourite parts of the day. The streets are actually walkable, no crowds and unexpected elbows to the abdomen, and sometimes the sun wakes up enough to shine across the tops of the buildings, illuminating the beauty of historic constructions, around from days when Oliver Twist roamed the streets. It’s nice to be reminded that London is an iconic, central metropolis (and that there is actually an upside to waking up when the sensible population is still asleep in bed, avoiding the almost Antarctic conditions that England seems to think is fair to burden the nation with this winter.)

Having lived in arguably the most beautiful city in the world last year, and maybe because of this, coming to London was not the instant glitz, lust and general amour I felt the moment my feet hit the cobblestone pavement in the City of Love. But just because the candle doesn’t burn so bright, doesn’t mean it isn’t any less special. London has a way of catching you by surprise, reminding you why it has fought off numerous attacks, attempts of destruction and actual devastation. It gets under your skin. It awakens you. It’s like the start of a Twilight film.

Cathartically, London never stops.

It may not be the city that never sleeps, but it sure can be the city that stops you sleeping. There is always, always something to do. People just sometimes forget where to look. Before I even visited London, when it was still a far off city, known only to me as a playground of Palace’s, Abbey’s, Harry Potter and David Beckham, I heard stories from visits by friends. One story involved two friends arriving early in the morning on the first day of the year, 2012. Their first impressions of London were of party revellers, loud music, bright lights and a city strewn with streamers; they had arrived in the midst of London’s New Year’s celebrations. As I was groggily waking across the Channel, Londoners were still on their game, unwilling to go to bed, to stop merely because the sun had started to rise. If you want chicken fried rice or popadoms at two in the morning, you’ve found your city.  

Unlike Paris, London is diverse. Or rather, London accepts and embraces its diversity. It makes it what it is, rather than ignoring it, never squanders its differences for fear of its reputation. Where Paris is Regina George, London is Cady Heron (of course, in a world where Cady isn’t played by one jail-bound Lohan). North, south, east, west; each side of London is like stepping into something new. Notting Hill to Waterloo, One Direction to The Beatles, there’s never an over-arching stereotype of this city. It’s just too different. Blimey, I haven’t even visited chunks of London and I feel like I’ve visited India, Africa, Italy and Morocco. Shepherd’s Bush to Clapham Common is like a short tube ride from France to Down Under. It’s a vibrant world encapsulated in an ever-welcoming London.

From week to week, London is my place of earning and living. It is a haphazard mixture of events, friends, weather, pints and expensive transport. It is an amalgamation of all things British, a detailed lesson in experiencing life in an assortment of forms. And from week to week, I get to experience everything that this large, beautiful, wacky, busy, pulsating city offers. Each week, this is where the question that I am so often asked will dictate, here is where the question will slowly be pieced, sewed, stitched together and in which life itself may bring to words.