So there I was again, topping up my Oyster card and minding the gap in the bloody tube. I hadn’t forgotten about the endless bus trips, pretentious Victorian houses and the freezing thin rain.
It was like a sparkle, all over again. First, the lions from Trafalgar Square, then those little pink flowers hanging from street poles, I was just amazed. We were taking pictures of Churchill whilst staring at the Big Ben (yes, even the big clock gave me butterflies in my stomach. Falling for such a cliché, Carolina?) when everything started.
Buckingham Palace didn’t do much for me – as it had never done – but as we had a blueberry muffin plus moccaccino in Covent Garden I couldn’t help but smile. With my mouth full. The burger we ate by the canal before an oddly empty Barfly night was so greasy I almost puked, but oh, I needed a real burger and chips. `Cause it’s chips, not fries, mate. After me, Dani and Carina yelling at each other to try to have a conversation, we decided to leave. Miss Winehouse was about to play next door, as we noticed by the amount of paparazzi waiting outside the Camden pub. I read on next day’s paper she showed up two hours later. It should’ve been the same time we arrived home, since our night bus never made the next stop. It was broken. Oh, London after midnight! Everything is such a pleasant mission, in’it?
My cheap vintage scarves bought in Portobello the morning after were a good start. The day just got better and better. A hat, a pair of earrings and many photos made the hours flash and next thing I know we are all eating Thai just around the corner. Maybe it was the shopping, maybe the red curry, perhaps the half bottle of wine. The thing is I wanted to cry with such a happy meal with my dearest friends EVER. By the way, thank you Stef, for paying the bill. The tiny bit of sunlight emerging from behind the clouds made everyone hysterical, so we walked down the street. We walked a bit more before going to the epicentre of coolness, fashion, upcoming arty scene so indie trendy nu-rave vintage area: Brick Lane. Alice, I had a PROPER Cosmo.
And if all that wasn’t enough, there she was, Tower Bridge. And raspberry and white chocolate muffin, and more Brick Lane, and more walking and home. Only to get changed and catch up with the warming up going on for hours in the lounge, with caipririnhas and all. Then it was getting the tube, getting in, getting in the mood, getting wasted, getting up, getting wild, getting tired, getting a cab, getting even more tired because the cab took ages to get there, getting home, getting a bit sick, getting a spot on the couch, getting bored, getting sleepy, getting a major hangover.
But the hangover was enjoyed with everyone that was smashed the night before, with polish home-made chicken soup and cartoons.
I had to change my flight to the next day. So, why not TATE Modern? Another cappuccino, a music book, a little run for the bus and I was apparently dead at the flight back to Barcelona. Seriously what’s with the journeys back home? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and woke up in the Mediterranean.
And now what?
I keep hearing Caroline’s voice in my head, with her cute French accent: “You CAN’T leave, Carol. You BELONG here”. I just nodded.