Letters from Home

Those Pesky Rose-Coloured Lenses

My good friend, disgruntled commuter has been having a hard time these days being disgruntled of late. I know the feeling.

I was out, with a friend at a gallery. We were talking loudish (comparatively, as Americans are wont to do) about the American-themed exhibit, when behold, a stranger.

“So,” he said on his distinctly British accent, gesturing at the photo, “how are you finding it?”

Hmmm… I am still in London, am I not? The city of cold, reserved, angry people who wouldn’t talk to you on the Tube if you were politely “ahemming” in order to indicate that their knapsack was on fire?

Since the autumn, as the days have started to shorten — and I have known we won’t be living here much longer — I have begun to notice the rosy flush in London’s cheek. Of course it doesn’t surprise me. This is how I have always lived my life: looking back in with longing, with perfect rose-colored hindsight.

Michele and I stopped and chatted with the man, who was (don’t worry) not a Londoner after all. But suddenly I was glad to be out and to be in the city. And I find, now, each day, I want it more, like a drug.

So I’ll be busy, these next few months… out and about with my old lover, this new found fling, gitty and gritty London. Never liked its smell or its grey old creak, but something about it has a twinkle.

Besides, you know what they say: love the one you’re with.