London reminds me of a quieter, saner version of New York City. When I took my first trip on the tube, I found the deafening sound of silence pretty shocking. I wondered why people weren’t speaking to each other. I wondered if the older man in front of me had a wife and kids, and what the angsty teenager sitting to my right ate for lunch, but I knew I couldn’t ask.
But since then, I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet. There’s something really nice about sitting in silence and being with no one but you. Boppin’ to the music of your choice and never speaking to a human being. Sometimes I imagine I’m in the opening scene of a Hollywood movie and I’m the star except I’m actually Reese Witherspoon but have hips like Shakira.
This past weekend I traveled to Brussels. I indulged in unhealthy amounts chocolate, went to a bar with over 250 beers on tap, and took a train to Bruges, one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. I saw the Manneken Pis [10], the most underwhelming but hilarious monument in all of history. I was followed by a drunken French man on the street and I inhaled a Belgian waffle at record speed. It was three days packed with culture and calories, my favorite kind of trip. But by Sunday, I knew it was time to go home.
It’s strange how such a foreign place can become home so quickly. Even after traveling for just one weekend, I was eager to come “home”. I never would have expected three weeks ago to feel that way, but I did. I missed the quiet, and the city, and the overpriced, questionable food. I missed paying in pounds and asking for directions in English. I missed home, which was apparently London.
