The only reason I miss England is because of the randomness and the people I’ve met there.
The okayness concerning all absurd appearance and preference is shocking, at first, but then gives you enough room not only to become yourself but to outstretch your limitations and become a person you are not, as in living in places you would normally consider below standard, feed on cheese and toast or green beans and peas. Never cooking, vintage clothing, underground clubbing, salsa nights, walks in the park..
Going to the supermarket with a friend and ending up just browsing and not buying.. Walking in the never-ending flat streets at night (sober) and realising you are the only sober one – whilst crossing a wave of out-of-control lunatics, attending the gay parade even if you are not gay, just for the heck of it. People-watching, bar tending, matching your outfits in a creative obscure way – yet in perfect understanding with mancunian fashion law, drinking pints of draft in dodgy pubs, walking in the street and suddenly being engulfed in pungent fish-n’-chips oily stink (as if the particles of deep-fried oil actually penetrate your nostrils), the vast wide variety of sandwiches available, room with a view, the smell of rugs everywhere, endless escalators and elevators, shopping malls, cute cafes..
Roaming around english country in a train for hours.. green endless fields, silly cows, remote essex, intellectually posh york, rave sheffield, hen-night blackpool, tubed london, yoga manchester, bmx derby, everything that ends with shire, fucking stoke-on-trent, damned crew and alsager, birming ham, eggs on toast, baked beans and hash browns, paper-cup tea held by frozen fingers, smoothies, cordial, woollies, hoodies. The rain..
Leg warmers, King’s cross, piping hot tea no milk, Liverpool street, the tube, pedestrian streets and bicycle traffic lights, Brick Lane and 1001 thoughts..
Penny Lane and rainy skies, Paddington and our backyard with a small marble statue right in the middle of it, high-tech minute-small kitchen and nutella in the refrigerator.
A scriptwriter, an artist, an anthropologist and an economist, living under the same roof, combining perspective and sharing moments.
Smoking cigarettes, drinking earl gray tea with milk (even if not supposed to put milk in earl gray..) creative afternoons, living-room meeting at nights, talking endlessly about philosophy, getting lost inside our thoughts, watching movies, cuddling under soft blankets, deep sleep, Morpheus and the traveling lucid dreaming of Don Juan..
Going out. Laughing loudly inside the the bus, in the middle of the street, wherever. Nothing matters here. There’s always someone louder or weirder. No one is paying attention to you. You can be anyone.
Soho’s record stores (somewhere/something inbetween Empire Records and High Fidelity), So-High-Soho and the weird assortment of arbitrary stuff it sells.. Snowflakes on the tip of your tongue. The smell of skunk on your fingers. Constantly feeling cold. Even if wearing layers and layers of clothing. Getting lost in the rain. Hurrying home. Putting the kettle on to make some home-free tea..
Feeling free. Feeling different and individual, even if within a whole.
Hyde Park. Walking on moist grass and being able to hear it. Licorice smoking rolling papers. Humid air. Breathing-in fog.
Loosing yourself inside Hyde Park and feeling ridiculous. Night falls and mist covers the park like a mystery blanket taken out from a Sherlock Holmes story.
Being in love from a distance.
Missing Home. Missing the sun.
Making the return home so much more worth it..
Being young. Feeling creative..