to the North

I spend a lot of time on trains. I also spend a lot of time in Kings Cross, and in a way Kings Cross feels more like home than almost everywhere else in London. As soon as I get on a train, as soon as that train pulls out of the station and I'm on my way to "the North", I relax. Even on that overcrowded train last Friday: the air condition wasn't working, people were sitting in the corridor, it was kinda terrible. But hey, the one thing I've learned since living here is that you got to make the most out of being in a confined space for more than an hour. Time to read an entire newspaper. Time to catch up on all those magazine articles. Time to read a book without being interrupted. Time to complete several levels on duolingo (I'm currently learning French and waiting for them to drop Norwegian.)

It's nice to have friends in other places. It's nice to have friends. It's nice to hang out in Edinburgh for four days and do all of these things and more: drink cardamom hot chocolate on 3 out of 4 days; go to the cinema at two in the afternoon; listen to your best friend perform at his choir's concert; walk everywhere; finally buy Sufjan Stevens' last album; talk and talk and talk. It's nice to explore no-longer-abandoned buildings. It's nice.

up

Last week I took the train to Scotland. The East Coast mainline is my happy place - sitting down for the journey up North always feels like a treat, an escape. Kevin lives in Edinburgh and he had decided that we would climb a mountain. Peter came up for the day, we all took a train to Pitlochry, bought bread and nuts and apples, and then started walking uphill. It was windy and quiet and excellent. In the mountains I feel free. When we reached the peak we found a place that was sheltered from the wind, sunny and warm. It was just us three up there, eating and talking and laughing. Then we walked back down and ate so much fudge that some of us felt quite ill.

On not going home

 

 I came back to London in a daze. It was six o’clock, still dark out, but the airport was packed with people. Going home. Leaving home. 

 In Vienna, we went to the Kunsthistorisches Museum and looked at the Old Masters, the Bruegel room, the Greek and Roman treasures. We went to the Jewish Museum and saw an exhibition about Richard Wagner (whom I dislike). We went to the cinema and saw Inside Llewyn Davies (good, especially the cat), The Hobbit (bad), and Computer Chess (undecided, but probably good). We ate out. We ate in. Wandered around. 

We spent New Year’s in an old farmhouse, eating raclette. I cuddled the cat. Peter cuddled the cat. We played board games. I stopped thinking about London, about my job, about being an adult. I slept for hours and hours. My only regret is not eating more bread. 

 Back in London, life continues much the same. It has taken months for me to settle into a routine, and to stop comparing life in London with life in Vienna, or Durham, or what life might be like in Edinburgh, Oslo or Bologna. I get up early, I go to bed early. My windows face east, and as I shuffle through my morning habits of Radio 3, cups of tea, wet hair and struggling with the daily absence of carrot bread, the sun rises slowly over the park. 

I leave the house at eight. I cycle to Walthamstow Central which is already busy with commuters, but not as busy as it will be ten minutes later. Unless I’m unlucky (or late), I get a seat on the tube. For the next forty or so minutes I read. My headphones block out most sound apart from the rumbling of the train and the apologies of the driver for the invariable delays. What I read: novels; books on history, occasionally on religion and philosophy; the LRB; the TLS; the Profil. Right now: Suetonius' history of the Twelve Caesars, which I love. What I listen to: Schubert; Elliott Smith; Sufjan Stevens; quiet stuff that will keep me calm when stuck in a tunnel. 

And then I’m in Knightsbridge. Eight, nine, twelve hours later I repeat my journey. I crawl into bed and read some more. I haven’t figured my evenings out yet – more often than not I miss my brothers, their easy familiarity and their pasta dishes. 

On weekends, I leave town. 

 Homesickness is odd. You can feel fine for days, weeks, and then all of a sudden it hits you and you will find yourself walking the aisles of a Spar supermarket, simply because the branding is familiar. 

 * Title from this talk at the British Museum. Ironically, I won't be able to go because I'll be in Vienna.

the last two months

The last two months. Too much work, and this: 

A walk to work after spending the night in Chelsea. Imagine walking to work in Chelsea every morning. A rare lunchbreak in Hyde Park. An okay book and a cat camera. What I see when I wake up in the morning, only it's pitch black these days, and all the leaves have gone. My colleague gave me flowers because I was sick and she is nice. A lovely weekend in Durham, I have learned to love the cathedral. Walking back to work on a beautiful autumn day. Waking up near the Forest of Dean. Breakfast with Kevin and Peter. A gift: House of Lords Shortbread (they're very nice). My improvised advent wreath, too minimal and all I could think of was the flower shop near my U-Bahn stop in Vienna that sells tons of advent wreaths from mid-November onwards. An afternoon in a café with real tea. Getting ready for an event at work. And a selfie in the kitchen at work before I hopped on the plane back to Vienna for Christmas.

I'm home now. The cat follows me around. My brothers follow me around (not really). I've eaten half a glass of apricot jam already, seen an excellent play, and watched Inside Llewyn Davis, which I liked. I've slept. It takes 20 minutes to get anywhere, half an hour at most. Every sound is familiar. I arrived late and took a taxi home, which I've never done before, and I... let him take the long way round and kept my shortcuts to myself. It's good to be home.

the forest

I'm not quite sure where the idea came from, but a couple of months ago I sent an e-mail to my best (UK-based) friends and mentioned the idea of going away for a weekend. Nothing happened for a while. Then my brother said he'd come along, and in uncommon Austrian efficiency we held a Skype meeting with my best friend during a Wednesday lunch hour and agreed to go to the Forest of Dean.* My brother rented a car, Kevin found a holiday apartment. Konstantin flew in from Vienna, Peter came down to London, Devin took a late night train from Durham, Kevin took the Megabus Gold from Edinburgh, and Lisa and I took the tube after work on Friday. We spent the weekend in a 70s-style apartment near the Forest where we warmed our feet and dried our hair in front of the fire. I slept like a stone and ate baked beans for breakfast for the first time ever. It was lovely.

* location may or may not have been chosen based on the Harry Potter connection

moments

My mum was here for the weekend. She left early on the Sunday, and I sat on my bed, surrounded by the pictures, trinkets, and furniture that she had brought over, idly wondering what to do with the day, trying not to feel glum. They were showing a double bill of After Sebald and Museum Hours in Dalston, and that seemed just right. I cycled to the station, got on the train, carried my bike down the stairs, cycled to the cinema, and took my seat amongst elderly couples. Mozart's clarinet concerto was playing over the speakers. 

After Sebald is a wonderful film; Museum Hours was faintly disappointing. It was strange to see Vienna in its gloomy, miserable winter glory; strange to realise that I know every corner in Vienna so well, and that I will never know London as well as that.

What I liked best about the last few weeks: listening to the new Arcade Fire album, thus drowning out the sound of the train rattling through endless tunnels; discovering a new-to-me author; watching superhero films with my flatmate; that time my train back to London got cancelled because of a storm (an extra night in Durham, a few more hours holding hands); spending an entire morning in a café, eating toast and reading. And every moment that I spent on my bike.

pink forever

Emma and Nikita have the best living room. I wish I had pink walls too.

old friends, new friends, best friends

On Friday I missed my train to Edinburgh. I had never missed a train before, so I felt quite glum. But all glumness evaporated as soon as I stepped off the train in Waverley. I drank cardamom hot chocolate every day. My best friend, my brother and I talked about - nothing in particular. My brother fell asleep on the sofa while Emma cut Kevin's hair. I received some excellent hugs and declared my love for Edinburgh repeatedly. These weekends away are everything to me.

August, come and gone

Happy August moments. There weren't that many. I've been viciously homesick ever since I went back to Vienna for a weekend in July. Happy days were those that I spent with my best friends, in town all too briefly; when we went to East Sussex/Kent to stay with Peter's dad; buying plants on my way to the Harry and the Potters gig; and, more than anything, weekends spent away from the city, like last weekend, when I went back to Durham and hung out in the same tiny cafés with my lovely friends.

If anyone has any tips on how to survive in London, do let me know. I'm running out of ideas and patience.

in London

One last breakfast in Vienna (two weeks ago already!), a Sunday coffee in London, and the week in between. I'm staying in the nicest neighbourhood until the end of June, filled with flowers and trees, but I haven't seen much of it. My best friend was in town, Peter came to visit, and I've been working a lot. Trying to ease myself into my new life, one step at a time...