London, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down

Do you know how you can become enamored with a city in the same way you can with a person? That’s how I feel about London. Ever since I first came here for the first time two years ago, I was crushing hard.

Well, not anymore. Coming from a city where its most devout baseball fans make themselves puke all over toddlers doesn’t really give me the credentials to harp on one of the UK’s finest metropolitan jungles. But after getting my debit card stolen, having a French guy vomit all over my bed and luggage, and suffering through five consecutive days of rain, I want to break up with London. And not just the “it’s not you, it’s me” break up. I’m more into the screaming and clothes being thrown from the second-story window kind.

People often run into troubling times while traveling, and they allow themselves to roll with the punches. And I’m truly trying my best here. But after spending three hours at the laundromat washing puke off of everything I brought here, I kinda just want to go home.

But that’d be a cop out. And I know I’d hate myself if I just gave up and hopped a plane back to Philly. So I’m giving London another chance. As I speak, a very nice British gentleman is cooking me lunch in the hostel kitchen. I’m going to Copenhagen in two days. My lovely parents are wiring me money this afternoon. My bank is overnighting me another card. Things will be okay.

On Friday afternoon, I spent five hours in a museum. The following day, I spent four hours in a library and then another hour sitting in a cafe just people watching. And then I took a nap. And then I wrote for another two hours.

I am 28-years-old and get to do whatever I want, when I want, for an entire month in Europe. A MONTH! It’s mind-blowing that I get to have this luxury as an adult with a full-time job and bills.

I keep forgetting to remind myself how blessed I am.

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