Crouch End

Already the voice of the bus driver sent a familiar ease down my spine. She spoke of seat belts and arrival times at the airport as she eased us out of the sunny Stockholm afternoon. In my book, the narrator moved with ease to Italy, drank cool white wine in the Capri sun and had passionate rows with her lover, and Stockholm was bustling with summer fever. Adventure tickled my senses, stirred the blond hairs on my skin, and as the plane lifted above the clouds, to that vast landscape of billowing white cotton balls and dreamy oceans in the sky, I knew again it was a drug I will never quit. 

London is rainy, dark, quiet in the middle if the night, save for drunk kids walking barefoot and we sat on the bottom deck of the bus. The air smells of giant English roses and elder flowers; I look the wrong direction to cross the street every time. The city lies quiet, like a mysterious treasure waiting to be discovered, like a blank sheet of paper waiting to be mapped and for this short moment, everything is yet to come. The apartment is quiet; I sleep like I am right where I belong.