I’ve been considering this for a while. A move, to nowhere in particular. My passport has been screaming to me from my bookcase for months now, and I’m afraid I couldn’t resist any longer.
11th January 2018.
I left London, after three long, lovely, at times, difficult years. I left my beautiful Crouch End attic room in a beautiful Victorian house, and I booked a one-way flight to Nice – a part of France I had never seen before, with just a few possessions left, stuffed into a suitcase, and my camera. I’m not quite sure what I’m doing, but this is what I’ve always done, and it feels right.
I learnt a lot while living in London, and it will always be a place where I’m sure I’ll find myself often enough never to forget the little things – where to find the best gluten-free pizza at 3am, the quickest route from Hackney to Hammersmith, how to make my last £10 last a full month – but little enough as to go back to that tourist feeling of discovering that a new restaurant has replaced that crusty old deli, or to forget that chit-chat and eye-contact on public transport is a no-no and strike up a conversation with the stranger next to me.
I’d fallen out of love with London, until I was leaving, and now it excites me again, and so I’ll always go back.
As for Nice, I loved it as soon as the plane landed, precariously close to the waves as the runway stretched out over the sea. It’s truly beautiful, and so relaxed. I spent two weeks wandering the streets with my camera, annoying the locals with my street photography. There was always a part of me, however, looking on to the next place, and booking that next flight – I’m not so good at remaining entirely ‘in the moment’, but then honestly, I think I’d spend my life in London if that were the case. Looking on drives me forwards.
I can’t wait until my next location!