It was five years ago today that I arrived in London from Perth. I came by myself, not so much fresh-faced as unwashed and desperately exhausted – the combination of a flight delay that totaled 30 hours in transit and the tail-end of a pestiferous bout of glandular fever that had forced me to postpone my trip by a month. I arrived alone, not knowing a soul in the city except for a couple of ex-Perth folk and my aunt, who I would live with for a time. Admittedly, I couldn’t have done it without her. She put me up, motivated me through my various job searches, supported me in finding me feet and included me when I didn’t know anyone else. I’m so lucky for that. Upon arrival, the first thing we did (after dropped my bags off) was head straight to the bar at the Tate Modern, to take in my new city and drink a bottle of wine on that grey, rainy afternoon.
If you asked me why I came, I’d feed you the average answers; I’d finished my degree and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life / there was nothing Perth held for me / to explore the world / to find new options / to have a new experience. Really, I wanted to throw myself across the planet just to see if I could. I wasn’t sure if I’d last three months, but I did. This place didn’t consume me and in some ways it made me better. I went out, got jobs, made friends, established networks. I even started a new degree over here. Now I’m almost as immediately ingrained in life over here than I am back home, in some cases more so.
I still miss home and the people inside it but when I’m back there, I miss London too. When I step on to the tube at Heathrow, I suck in the English air and smile as the scenery rushing past gets more familiar as the city looms through the panes.
So thanks, London. Thanks for being kind to me when you’ve seen it fit and for keeping me. Don’t get me wrong – you’ve been a total dick at times too, but the good things are enough to have made me stay all these years.
Happy anniversary.
