About a year ago, I left sunny California and 12 hours later landed in the Big Smoke with two pieces of luggage and a spirit full of hope for what was to come next.
Looking back, I must have been a little crazy. I knew not one person amongst the 5 million inhabitants, I didn’t have a place to live, and I had almost no money, having spent it all during the previous 7 months whilst I was loving life in Rio de Janeiro.
I stayed at a hostel next to the British Museum…cramming myself and everything I owned into a tiny space for two weeks.
Every night I had the urge to cry, but not the luxury to be able to do so.
In my short 20 odd years of life: I’ve lived in 9 homes, in 5 countries, in 3 different continents and one of the things I can say that I’ve learned from having moved back and forth around the world about a dozen is times, is that it never gets easier. It never becomes one of those things that practice makes less painful.
There’s a reason why people refer to it as being “uprooted,” because any and all roots that have been formed in that specific place feel like they’re being yanked out forcefully only to be planted again in foreign soil…away from the familiar nutrients that had been supplying it with life.
Moving to London, was one of the toughest moves and also one of the most rewarding ones. Within 12 hours of my arrival, I was at uni sorting out the details of master’s course that would be the focal point of my life for the next 12 months. I met many people whose name I couldn’t remember at first and who I couldn’t forget now even if I tried.
I would go to my hostel home each day, exhausted… but fueled by the fact that I wasn’t dreaming, but living in a dream I had conjured up whilst still in Rio.
I had been dreading leaving a country that I had fallen passionately in love with and knew, like I had known in Paris less than 2 years before, that this adventure abroad wouldn’t be my last.
My course ended about a month ago, with the swiftness that it began.
But my adventure in London continues…at least for now.