I have been waiting for the magic of London to wrap around me like a blanket. But London doesn't do that. It spreads itself out before you, but it won't reach out to embrace you. It is there to be explored, to challenge you, to get you lost and frustrated and exhilerated. But make you feel loved? No.
I'm back in London, bruised and battered, and slightly rested from three months of manic travelling. Though manic is perhaps the wrong word - who in their right mind could call camping in a riverbed in Tuscany manic? Strolling the streets of Venice? Driving through fields of lavendar that cling to gentle hillsides in Provence? Where is the frantic rush in lazy days painting an old apartment in the siesta-heavy afternoons of Italy?
It feels bittersweet that it is all over,, that I am back in London looking for work and bracing for the cold. I miss the sunshine. I miss my sister. I miss my friends.