London, Travels and Other Stories

Probably, in all likelihood, any of you who so kindly followed me through the first nine days of my great big bus trek across America are still wondering what on earth happened next. And whilst following up on the whereabouts of my diary notes is still at the forefront of my mind, there's too much that's gone on in the months since I touched down in Heathrow Airport (after a decidedly uncomfortable and terrifyingly turbulent bump over the big blue Atlantic). Be warned - the following contains references to cats, internships, travelling and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. All of these will probably be expanded upon if I have time.

London was cold when I arrived, grey and cool and as my sleepy mother and father drove home, both of whom had just arrived back from France a few hours before, the wonderful dense green of the Chilterns overwhelmed every sense of nostalgia and for maybe a second or two, I thought - okay, George Eliot, you had a point. Then I thought about the wonderful cup of tea that could only be found in a Twinnings teabag and the shiny new kettle in the kitchen and couldn't stop smiling after that. The happy return could only last so long. Relieved and tired and more than a little groggy from the quantity of sleeping pills I'd taken to calm myself during the flight, I popped on the kettle, dropped Bag One upstairs and then asked after Scampy. Scampy is my cat. Not my sister's or my brother's. Mine. He's a grumpy, black-haired moggy that likes to pretend he's Master of the House. The only problem is that all of those present tense verbs should be past tense. As soon as I ask where the cat is my sister's face falls into a placating frown and starts to say the horrible truth. My sixteen year old hissing-spitting hunter, my purring hug, has died. RIP Scampy - you scary ass mouse murderer. Two days later mum had decided on a new kitten who's so adorable and affectionate I actually miss her as I'm writing this. She's called Squeaky because she squeaks.

Jobs are all the rage when you're 21 and about to enter your fourth year of university. They're very in vogue, every one wants one, especially if they don't pay you and you're able to call yourself and intern. Luckily, I managed to attain one of these excitingly fashionable titles and spent two weeks buzzing with the hum of London life, bustling through the underground, commenting on the people, watching stranger play on the piano in Paternoster Square. 'Luther' was the lovely company to give me that opportunity and I have to say it was brilliant. Of course, there were things that were slow at times or too fast - sometimes time likes to play tricks on your mind, but as a PR Consultancy, the people are vibrant and interesting and the job itself is full of cryptic undercurrents and wonderful little quirks. It's busy and exciting and I hope to at least keep in touch with them all. 

It was at this point that the jetset life came back to haunt me. Restlessness became overwhelming in the wake  of all this rhythm. Unlike the year prior, familiar things surrounded me at all times, homey comforts and smells that both delighted me and drove me insane. I applied for another job, a different kind of job, a job back in the beautiful and much missed City Of My Soul: Edinburgh. The Fringe Festival called to me. I've wanted to  do the Fringe for as long as I can remember, plus I told myself I'd work there every year since I started university. It was settled rather quickly. Applications were filled in, deadlines met, opportunity after opportunity analysed and usually applied for. 

The Space UK and Fringe Guru responded. If you follow the links you'll see two quite different jobs had selected me. The SpaceUK is a company that essentially rents out theatre spaces, techs and staffs box offices and generally helps with back and front of house theatre events. Fringe Guru is a festival review site, a site for those who want to read up on what's on etc. I was going to be a Box Office Girl and an Official Reviewer. I couldn't be happier. 

But before Edinburgh I had two more stops: Dubrovnik and Paris. 

Dubrovnik was a whim. This summer in the UK, the summer sort of lost its way and buggered off somewhere that only it knows. Those long, eternally blue days where the bees come out and the flowers all burst into colour were no where to be found. Any flowers that dared to bloom quickly shrivelled up and died in their waterlogged pots and all the bees spent time cowering under any of the bigger leave that survived. So my mum was fed up. I was fed up. My sister had already gone off on her own adventure around Europe with her best friend Emma so her twin was feeling left out and my dad really just wanted to go somewhere that no one would complain about. So five days before take-off we're booked onto an easyjet flight to the beautiful Croatian city of Dubrovnik. 

Paris, on the other hand, was for my beloved Shmoo's 21st birthday. Between the two of us, I'd managed to book a month late, but it meant I had her all to myself which was perfect. With a whole year apart, I needed some best friend time and what a time we had. Descending into the corkscrew clouds that piled up like the towers of Versailles, nerves jittered about within me and the clinging, sticky heat was cloying. 

"I'm not much of a Paris person," I thought (and I said as much to Alex later), "I hate this Orlybus and this horrible sweaty heat and this gibberish language." 

Admittedly, I felt quite vulnerable not being able to understand or speak to anyone, but I think a lot of it was just post-flight anxiety and tiredness. I scribbled away with my pen on the subway though and by the time I was with Alex, I was ready to roll out in pink jeans and shirt. 

I think I saw a whole new side of Paris that weekend. Away from the tourist traps that most of us non-speakers would end up in, Paris is exquisite. Ambling to the canal, we ordered pizza from a hole-in-the-wall cafe that then gave us a pink balloon with instructions to sit on the river bank. The cool, rushing air funnelled through the wide watery space and freshened everything with a smile. The thrum of local life, the numbers of people huddled in groups on the banks, the awesomeness of that pizza made me reconsider all of those misgivings. Here was a Paris that, even though I didn't understand it, made sense. 

Cheers Alex, ma petite meuf, for such a wonderful time. 

NEXT COMES EDINBURGH. And you know what. I think that deserves a whole new post dedicated to it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

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