A Love Letter to London

For she who wore her grey skies like couture, and never once apologized for the weather...

I suppose I should begin with the lamp. That one I stumbled across at a vintage stall at Greenwich Market, tucked between a velvet jacket the vendor swore was once worn by a Rolling Stone, a crate of mismatched china teacups, and cherry-flavored condoms that were the one thing I hoped to God weren’t “slightly used” like the sign declared. From the moment I saw it: all fishnet stocking and fringe, I was smitten.

It was part burlesque, part grandma’s attic, and entirely London.

I snapped this picture, of course. How could I not? It felt like a metaphor, even then.

It’s a confusing kind of affection, the one I have for this British city.

London does not seduce you. Not in the way other cities do. Paris purrs with chic nonchalance. Rome smolders and smells of sex. Prague twirls her gothic skirts and winks.

London seems to suffer your entrance…. in a “lie back and think of England” kind of way. She opens the door on a drizzle-soaked morning, hands you a chipped mug of tea, and goes about her business, hoping your visit will be over soon yet determined to be polite throughout its duration.

Despite this decidedly detached disposition, you fall in love with her, God help you (and save the Queen).

You fall in love while sitting on a park bench reading The Guardian, the wind swirling around you smelling faintly of wet leaves. You fall in love at Daunt Books, running your fingers along old spines while overhearing two strangers in the travel section quietly disagreeing on whether Puerto Vallarta or Palermo is better in March. You fall in love with the old pubs that feel like your grandpa’s study. The whiskey-ringed coasters, worn leather armchairs, and the lingering ghost of a good cigar. Even their names sound like they’ve been aged in oak.

And then there’s the food.

Which…I mean… listen…

I won’t lie and say I haven’t been served some suspicious beige meals while vying for her heart. The kind that come with a side of mushy peas and a serious sense of disappointment. But I’ve also had the best damn tikka masala of my life in Whitechapel at 1am. Lucky for London, even the worst food somehow works when it’s washed down with a warm pint in a crooked pub.

Then there’s the people.

They swear beautifully. They apologize when you bump into them. And they are never in too much of a hurry to laugh at themselves (or you).

There is an innate cheek in the air here. A Hugh Grant-level flustered charm.

And yes, you had to know Hugh Grant was going to come up in this letter. I mean, I was raised by British rom-coms. Colin Firth’s furrowed brow, Emma Thompson’s devastating stoicism, Hugh Grant bumbling through Notting Hill with marmalade on his tie. I grew up believing in the quiet, clever magic of this place. And I will not be proven wrong.

She’s not perfect. She’s actually quite a daft cow. Moody and damp, wildly expensive, and with Tube stations that smell like something (really) took the piss, she still somehow makes up for it in the strangest ways. The smell of old paper at the British Library, for instance, just when you were sure your heart couldn’t take one more grey day.

I didn’t come to London expecting love.

I came for the bookstores. The theater. Maybe a street market or two and a photograph of one of those red phone booths everyone shamelessly posts on social media upon a triumphant return from abroad.

Yet love snuck in anyway.

So, yes, this is a love letter, not a roast.
The Brits save those for Sundays.