London Boy
Updated: Dec 4, 2024
Saint Augustine once said, "The world is a book, and those who do not travel, read only one page." I arrived in London on the morning of August 12th, 2024, at precisely 8:23 a.m.(CET), the weight of years pressing softly upon me as I stepped off the plane. This journey across the Atlantic had long been stirring in my thoughts, even before the fragments of a former life had scattered. For years, leaving the States had hovered on the edge of possibility, like a distant star barely within sight. When people ask me about this Expat adventure, their question is always the same: "Why leave America?"
My answer never wavers. "Because what I want from the rest of my life no longer aligns with the place America has become, nor with the direction it's headed." They often respond with familiar words: "But nowhere is perfect. There's racism, xenophobia, violence everywhere." And they are right, of course. Nowhere on this earth is utopia. That's the truth I carry with me. I tell them, "I know the world is broken. Everywhere. Economic collapse, terroristic threats, housing markets crumbling, wealth divides that have never been so vast." Yes, the world is chaotic—always has been. But after a lifetime in America, I crave something beyond the limits of Midwest Ohio, something more than the occasional venture to places like Branson, Missouri.
(Branson, Missouri—I've never been, but it's hailed as some kind of travel pinnacle in the States, with over 10.2 million visitors in 2022. Who knew?)
What I yearn for are the Branson's of Italy, of Germany, Japan, Croatia, Iceland, or Singapore. I even tried to see if other "Bransons" existed around the globe once—did a quick Google search, scrolled a bit, found nothing, and promptly abandoned the hunt. #Research
But I digress—back to London (and if I ever veer into a Branson tangent again, gently place your index finger on my lips, and I'll understand that I’ve made a mistake). So here I am, in the United Kingdom, early on a Monday morning, heading to meet old friends in Peterborough, a town an hour north of the city. It’s the first time I’ve left the confines of North America, the first time I've navigated a vast city’s pulse through its public transit.
The airport felt different—depending on where you land, you disembark not through a tunnel but directly onto the tarmac. For me, it was a strange, yet, an exciting departure from the ordinary. I stepped onto that fog-laden, faintly acrid London air, breathing it in with a strange mix of gratitude and curiosity. This was a beginning, a turning of the page into something uncertain and uncharted. A chapter had closed, and in its place, a new one had begun.
To be continued...
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