#71 london

primrose hill, friendship bracelets, boxcar croissants, unfinished business

When the flight lands at Heathrow, the pilot says, “It’s quite a rubbish evening here in London.” I look out of the window at nothing but one singular shade of grey, turn the word rubbish over in my mind, always a slut for an accent. H leads the way to baggage claim, to the trains, to the connecting tube, down Baker Street and up a narrow flight of stairs to our cozy, high ceilinged Airbnb.

London and I have some kind of unfinished business, and it’s evident in the nippy air, in the wet pavement, in the way that odd familiarity takes shape in my quickened steps. A few years ago I almost moved here to go to business school, then chose New York. Two summers ago I booked flights to visit, then had a spurt of bad love change my plans. Three months ago, I declined a sweet job offer, because I needed to go to India and be around family to recuperate from whatever hell was sinking my brain like quicksand. We kept missing each other, I chose other branches of the fig tree, I was never near the phone when the city rang. Still, I stayed curious from afar, something unforgettable about its old charm always lodged in the back of my mind.

As a teenager I had visited, stuck my nose up against the glass windows of a double decker bus, photographed Buckingham Palace in blurry pixels on my Sony digital camera, declared stubbornly over Indian food to my family that I loved it here and I’d be back! A visceral memory bubbles to the surface - my brother fidgeting with the cutlery at the table, rolling his eyes like, here she goes again. My parents exchanged glances, pleased at themselves - the travel was working on at least one of their children’s ambitions. No longer a child, and in a confusing cold war with my own ambition, here I was, keeping my promise, equipped this time around with the golden company.

H and I have been best friends for half a decade. For us, conversation and comfort are easy. There’s no pretending, no need to impress, no topic too heavy to broach. Weary from the long day, we skipped out to dinner at Two Point Thai, feasting on a strange pairing of sauvignon blanc and red curry as we chalked out a rough list of all the spots we wanted to see over the next four days. I prayed to the weather gods for as little gloom and rain as possible. For a change, they answered.

Then, just as you’d expect from two eldest daughters, we seamlessly executed on our desires - walking through the nearly empty Tate Britain on a Monday afternoon, gravitating to the exhibit displaying women artists with pointed iPhones, pleased to spot a well known Hockney in a back room. In Hyde Park we sprinted over miles of flat green grass, performing every emotional SRK scene that came to mind. On the way home, we stopped to shop : I bought a physical copy of The Orange by Wendy Cope at Daunt, H bought me a Phlur scent called Father Figure that I sprayed on my neck and wrists, then made everyone in the tube turn to stare when I got on.

One chilly morning we walked to Dishoom, splitting breakfast dishes and shamelessly asking for refills of the chai on tap. She lent me her River Island bodysuit, it fit like a glove. I lent her my Sacheu lip stain, complete with detailed instructions on the rocket science involved in its application. We got our hair done at a salon called Perfectress, breaking ice with the sweet Turkish man who had lost his Indian wife a few years ago. Immigrants always find other immigrants, offer a knowing smile and a few words of reassurance, no matter what country you’ve left behind to build your life on common ground.

When we sat down for breakfast at Eddie’s, over breakfast paninis and large cappuccinos, we brought up losing old friends, our disillusionment with new love, the omnipresent pressure to marry, the desire to completely disappear so as to escape all expectation. Then we rode the bus to Portobello Road, thrilled to see posters of Taylor Swift and Harry Styles, sitting amicably next to each other. The famous pastel houses of Notting Hill, the blue door. “I’m just a girl…” I couldn’t help but reminisce, even though I would rather have a lobotomy than stand in front of a boy and ask to be loved. At Lovers Lane, I ran my fingers over vintage Stella McCartney dresses and Tom Ford heels, grooving to the edgy 70’s rock blasting through the speakers. When we chanced upon a jewelry store with a sign that read “Forever Friendship bracelets”, the kind they weld to your hands, we smiled knowingly at one other, picked out thin gold chains, and offered our wrists. It was the perfect souvenir, never to be lost or forgotten.

H jumped up the following afternoon, pointing at the sun streaming in through the windows. “Look at that!” she yelled, “Come on!” We raced to buy cans of Gin & Tonic from Boots, and got on the 274 to Camden. Everyone on the bus was young, beautiful, headed where we were : to sit atop Primrose Hill with their friends while feasting on a colorful sunset. From the summit of rolling, sprawling hillside, legs folded up to my knees, I saw that panoramic view of London, glowing back at me, almost like the city was bold in asking, have I charmed you enough yet? I blinked and sipped my G&T. I had no answer, none I wanted to confess anyway. We listened to the 1975 and brought up Fleabag, One Day, Love Actually - all the classics.

In between all the madness, we squeezed in a walk down Tower Bridge, happy hour drinks at a watering hole in Canary Wharf where H took a picture of me and said I was right in my habitat (finance bros swarmed in suits like vultures at every table around us, talking money and markets), a chance meeting with an old colleague who was visiting with her grandchildren, a lovely breakfast at Boxcar with my friend from New York who was stationed in the city for a few months (hi, Anya!). The matcha croissants were so good, we packed a couple to take home. On our last day H and I walked down to Vauxhall, only one item remaining on the list. The Black Dog. It was nearly empty, but still, the power of the song hung heavy in the air between tables. Every few minutes Swifties would arrive and take photos from across the street, whispering excitedly. As one must, we plugged in our separate AirPods and listened to Taylor scream old habits die screaming against beating drums all the way home.

This was the year I decided to meet all my closest friends at airports around the world. I missed them and needed to laugh with them. Every single one of them obliged, making me a lucky woman. Like H, who took the lead and navigated train directions, made dinner reservations, fed me London trivia as we flew down any street, made me tear up so often from giggling so hard, took great pictures, offered gentleness when I brought out the most bent out of shape pieces of my brain’s jigsaw puzzle, shared herself with me without restraint. We’d talked about doing something like this for years, our correspondence mostly online over frantic texts and winding weekend phone calls.

It was special to sit across from her, to watch her face articulate every Dostoevskian feeling, to feed off and reciprocate her energy. It was made even more special against the backdrop of London through which we adventured, pretending to be locals, quickly picking up that old money Marylebone fashion to fit in, swiping our cards and descending stairs and switching train lines with a fake but convincing confidence. I felt immediately at ease in the chaos of a big, intimidating city and in the company of my friend.

My friendships with women have always outlived any romantic connection I’ve ever had. Women offer understanding and endless empathy, keep up with your fifty deviations in any story, work overtime to memorize your angles and snap 20 photos for you to choose from within seconds. Platonic intimacy takes years and effort to build, but once you do, you can unravel entirely in its comforts. You can say what you’re thinking, no matter how controversial. Women hold your secrets close. For them, I find I don’t have to perform, or feign perfection.

Reluctantly, I hugged H on Baker Street and we went in opposite directions - her home was Cardiff, mine was New York. In the train to the airport, I finally addressed my flooding inbox, only to find an email from her. “Whichever road you take, you’ve got my unwavering support.” I hope she knows she has mine.