so long, london

adventures in a city i love and no longer live in

What does it mean to love a city? Not ‘love’ in the sense of ‘really liking’, but actually loving, in the way you might love a person?

It sounds pretentious (and expect a lot of that in this newsletter, I want my Writer Moment), but I was contemplating this question recently as I walked across Waterloo Bridge on a crisp, clear early autumn evening, sun shining and glinting off the familiar skyline of London. I was on my way to an event at the BFI Southbank to see my favourite film critic (told you – pretentious) Mark Kermode live and in conversation with special guests. I had just clocked off from work, my office situated within a theatre in the West End, when in a sudden moment of self-awareness I stopped and thought, how cool is my life?

The ending of my almost 6-year relationship and 2-year engagement also meant the ending of that life I had made for myself in the UK, thanks to a pesky little clause - understatement of the century - in my partner visa, and no alternative visa options (yes, I checked, I’m sure; no, I probably can’t come back any time soon). And so, in an attempt to process the feelings of deep sadness and grief I felt at the prospect of leaving London, I began to examine - and notice, more and more - my love for it.

When I meet new people – Brits, specifically – and they discover I’m originally from Australia but decided to move to London, their first question is always ‘Why?!’ I usually laugh it off, make some comment about escaping the spiders or how I just loooooove terrible weather, but underneath it all what I often want to say is ‘Why not?’

It seems to me that in this instance, the old adage ‘We all want what we can’t/don’t have’ rings true. I, a Sydneysider for most of my life, have never been too fussed about Sydney but have always had a deep fascination with London, pretty much the furthest away - geographically speaking - you can get from my home city.

Even during my first two-week visit back in 2018, I felt as though I had stumbled upon something new and exciting. (Breaking news, White Aussie Girl Discovers the UK!) And when I properly emigrated to London a few years later, I was all-consumed by a sense of novelty that seemed to be working in conjunction with, not against, a feeling of odd familiarity. In a strange way, it felt like a crush. Culturally, London and Sydney aren’t so different on the surface, at least from a tourist’s perspective. For a start, we all speak the same language. Supposedly, anyway. Try saying ‘pants’ or ‘thongs’ and watch everyone around you squirm - I learned the British definition of both words the hard way. But there are more differences between the two cities than meet the eye, and like a new object of romantic desire I wanted to know everything about it.

In some cities - *cough cough*, Sydney - you need to actively seek out things to do, see, explore and experience. London on the other hand offers you more new experiences than you could ever possibly do.

The question instead becomes, which experience should we choose today?

This is my absolute favourite thing about London. Everywhere, at any time, something is happening, and you could be part of it. That feeling of being a small part of something bigger than you is unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.

The number of times I accidentally stumbled upon something I never would’ve been able to even plan for in Sydney if I wanted to - float at Pride 2023 featuring the entire Heartstopper cast, I’m looking at you - was staggering. Those three years were filled with chance encounters and cosmic timing that lead me to experiences I never could have dreamed of. I made friends at press events, that I attended due to my job, that I got an interview for because a recruiter happened to come across my CV. A lost bag lead to a life-affirming lunch with a family in Tunbridge Wells. A reference to a Doctor Who character from the 80s lead me to two amazing friendships. Those friendships lead to another friendship. My life in London was one great big interconnecting map (you know, like the Sally Rooney-Taylor Swift-Phoebe Bridgers- Fleabag one), and every thread I pulled seemed to be leading me somewhere great.

Don’t get me wrong, London has its flaws: crime, isolation, unfriendliness, general rat race-ness, shit weather, the Northern line’s attempts to break the sound barrier on the stretch of track between Camden and Euston, every single man I’ve ever interacted with at an All Bar One, how £15 has somehow become the going rate for a cheeseburger, to name a few. Sure, these aren’t the parts of London I would jump to when asked why I love it, but in my opinion, the only things to not love about London can be said of pretty much any major city.

And isn’t that what love is? Is love not seeing all that is wrong with something and choosing to love it anyway? Is it resisting jumping to its defence, still being able to remain critical, putting your hands up and saying ‘Yes, I know, that’s not great’ without making excuses, and yet, almost in spite of all that, still thinking it’s perfect?

This is what I know about love: Love is ever shifting. It isn’t earned but it does need to be maintained. There are some days - like when you hit a break in buses and wait half an hour, then flag down the bus and the driver doesn’t stop even though you can see it isn’t full, and you decide to travel via the underground, wrangled like livestock, sweating and gasping, hurtling at full speed under a city full of miserable pricks who can’t even mumble an apology when they run full force into you with the World’s Largest Backpack on their person – where you don’t feel that it loves you back. Maybe you don’t even love it anymore. Maybe you think, it’s time to move on.

And then that feeling passes the next time you see a fox cautiously gallop from one side of the road to the other, or the woman at Wasabi charges you takeaway prices but lets you eat in, or you see a swarm of finance bros in those gilets (you know the ones) all spilling out of a pub in Leadenhall and onto the footpath, and laugh to yourself (not in a mean-spirited way, but a knowing, sentimental way) about the fact that people will spend £8 for a pint and the privilege of standing in the road. Just as quickly as it lets you down, it shows you a million reasons why you love it.

And now, having moved back to Sydney, I can safely say that the novelty has not worn off. When I love something or someone, I don’t do it in halves. I love fully and deeply. Obsessions come and go, crushes appear and swiftly dissipate. But London has stayed, even now I’ve left. That is how I know I truly love London.

I don’t worry about it - it won’t miss me, after all, and it was doing fine before it met me. It will be fine after. And likewise I was fine before I fell in love with it too, and though I am grieving for what I had and all the adventures I never got to have, I will be fine again one day.

Maybe love is a two-way mirror, and the way we love others reflects back onto us. Maybe, more cynically, it’s an exercise in narcissism and greed, how much we are willing to take from something to fulfil our own selfish need to be adored. All I know is that I loved London and it felt like it loved me back. And even if it didn’t, loving that city handed me the blueprint for how to love myself, and for that I will be forever in its debt.

So: so long, London. Until we meet again.

Brig <3