Sunday February 22/2015
One year later…
I sit at the Alex, pint in hand, Tommy by my side, and my computer in front of me. (The irony of me writing my blog in the very place I was canned for writing it in the first place is not lost on me). I sit here, trying my best to wrap my brain around the fact that an entire year has passed since I stepped foot in this country, confident beyond any doubt that this was where I was meant to be. I try to collect my thoughts, sort my memories, and articulate some sort of definition of my life over the last 365 days. And I am at a loss. How do you put into words one of the most (insert every adjective in the english language here) experiences of your life?
My lack of thoughts are interrupted by Australian Ted, commenting on my efficient typing skills. As talented of a guitar player as he may be, he has never been able to master the art of finger typing. In the background, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers start to serenade us and my attention shifts as he trails off about his flexible thumbs. It isn't until I hear him mention Chris that the Chilli Peppers take a back seat, and he regains my focus.
As he praises Chris for his ability to "see everything", and describes him as a sensible man (apart from when a row is upon him, for what man ever remains sensible in times such as that), I can feel myself physically retract from the conversation. Ted, stop talking.
And that's when my thoughts cleared, except for one: In this very moment, right now, how can I define the past year, when as it stands, my life has become the complete opposite of everything leading up to this point.
"I really do love your old man, Chelsea. He's a great guy. He loves to fist pump."
"He is, Ted. And I'm sure he does. But he's not my old man anymore."
Perfectly timed, Tommy comes back from a fag, offers me a shot. No, tommy. I'm writing. Should probably try to keep a level head. He mentions Hemingway, and points out that my writing may improve with a Jameson or two. I recall reading somewhere that, although Ernest was notorious for his love of alcohol, he never actually drank while writing. He had said that was more Faulkner's bag, and he could always tell right in the middle of the page when he'd had his first drink. Regardless, I now wanted a dry martini. Well, dry and dirty.
A year ago, I arrived in london, and as it does in London, my life unfolded quickly. Everything just kind of fell into place. And then it didn't for a moment. And then it did again. My life became a compilation of consistent partying, making the strangest but best of friends, exploring the city, and playing house with my Irish equivalent. My days would consist of working at the unnamed bar, or teaching midget demons, a pint or two here and there and then finishing with a homemade meal in the company of the stupid ginger beard and his annoyingly endearing qualities. Weekends would always find me in some bar, or some market and then some bar, or some theatre show and then some bar, but always back in bed with that stupid ginger beard, and his annoyingly endearing jokes, quirks, and the biggest arms that always held me the tightest.
In a place where everything has changed, I find myself. I still party consistently, market occasionally, and duck into whichever bar I stumble upon in between. But I do it alone. Sans Beard. Sans big arms.
I take Tommy's shot.
It's almost serendipitous, the fact that I celebrate my one year anniversary at a point where I've basically returned to the place at which I started. (Well I literally am, I'm living back at Josh's). I have one year left on my visa and I have found myself beginning it, the very same way in which I did when I arrived. A reboot, if you will. A fresh start. A second beginning. It's strange. It sucks. But it doesn't. But then it does again. But I am hopeful. I'd like to think that I am hopeful, and open to whatever the universe brings my way. The universe. What a strange concept. Made even stranger with the third pint I accept and ingest. Perhaps Faulkner was onto something.
I try to leave those thoughts behind me and reflect on other accomplishments, life lessons, personal growths, and the notable fails that have brought me from February 2014 to February 2015. I still don't know which way to look when crossing the street. I can honestly say I most likely never will. I just walk, with the assumption that I'm too pretty to die young. I still become giddy when a stranger asks for directions and I actually know where to point them to. I love that I can complain about overground delays, and obnoxious Oxford Street pedestrians, but also still be baffled by the fact that it costs more to eat in a restaurant or cafe than it does to take away. (And relish in the fact that I say 'take away' and not 'take out'.) Or still feel shameful whenever I catch myself saying "You alright?" when a customer approaches the bar, instead of a classic Canadian, "Oh hey there! How are ya? How's it going, eh?"
I can rely on the immense strength of the friendships I've created, and allowed to blossom into relationships that I never expected to find, let alone depend on. But most importantly, I can find comfort in myself, knowing that whatever comes my way, I have the ability to face it, with confidence and a prideful independence. I brought myself here one year ago. And if this year has brought me anything, it's the strength and courage to embrace another year with an open heart, an eager mind, and the mentality to welcome any and every new adventure that is sure to come my way.
So cheers to you, London. To one more year and all it has to offer. May we indulge in every experience we share, laugh at every downfall, smile, grit, and bare the rest and hope to God when the year is up, it will not be the end. But instead a start to something even better.
One year later…
I sit at the Alex, pint in hand, Tommy by my side, and my computer in front of me. (The irony of me writing my blog in the very place I was canned for writing it in the first place is not lost on me). I sit here, trying my best to wrap my brain around the fact that an entire year has passed since I stepped foot in this country, confident beyond any doubt that this was where I was meant to be. I try to collect my thoughts, sort my memories, and articulate some sort of definition of my life over the last 365 days. And I am at a loss. How do you put into words one of the most (insert every adjective in the english language here) experiences of your life?
My lack of thoughts are interrupted by Australian Ted, commenting on my efficient typing skills. As talented of a guitar player as he may be, he has never been able to master the art of finger typing. In the background, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers start to serenade us and my attention shifts as he trails off about his flexible thumbs. It isn't until I hear him mention Chris that the Chilli Peppers take a back seat, and he regains my focus.
As he praises Chris for his ability to "see everything", and describes him as a sensible man (apart from when a row is upon him, for what man ever remains sensible in times such as that), I can feel myself physically retract from the conversation. Ted, stop talking.
And that's when my thoughts cleared, except for one: In this very moment, right now, how can I define the past year, when as it stands, my life has become the complete opposite of everything leading up to this point.
"I really do love your old man, Chelsea. He's a great guy. He loves to fist pump."
"He is, Ted. And I'm sure he does. But he's not my old man anymore."
Perfectly timed, Tommy comes back from a fag, offers me a shot. No, tommy. I'm writing. Should probably try to keep a level head. He mentions Hemingway, and points out that my writing may improve with a Jameson or two. I recall reading somewhere that, although Ernest was notorious for his love of alcohol, he never actually drank while writing. He had said that was more Faulkner's bag, and he could always tell right in the middle of the page when he'd had his first drink. Regardless, I now wanted a dry martini. Well, dry and dirty.
A year ago, I arrived in london, and as it does in London, my life unfolded quickly. Everything just kind of fell into place. And then it didn't for a moment. And then it did again. My life became a compilation of consistent partying, making the strangest but best of friends, exploring the city, and playing house with my Irish equivalent. My days would consist of working at the unnamed bar, or teaching midget demons, a pint or two here and there and then finishing with a homemade meal in the company of the stupid ginger beard and his annoyingly endearing qualities. Weekends would always find me in some bar, or some market and then some bar, or some theatre show and then some bar, but always back in bed with that stupid ginger beard, and his annoyingly endearing jokes, quirks, and the biggest arms that always held me the tightest.
In a place where everything has changed, I find myself. I still party consistently, market occasionally, and duck into whichever bar I stumble upon in between. But I do it alone. Sans Beard. Sans big arms.
I take Tommy's shot.
It's almost serendipitous, the fact that I celebrate my one year anniversary at a point where I've basically returned to the place at which I started. (Well I literally am, I'm living back at Josh's). I have one year left on my visa and I have found myself beginning it, the very same way in which I did when I arrived. A reboot, if you will. A fresh start. A second beginning. It's strange. It sucks. But it doesn't. But then it does again. But I am hopeful. I'd like to think that I am hopeful, and open to whatever the universe brings my way. The universe. What a strange concept. Made even stranger with the third pint I accept and ingest. Perhaps Faulkner was onto something.
I try to leave those thoughts behind me and reflect on other accomplishments, life lessons, personal growths, and the notable fails that have brought me from February 2014 to February 2015. I still don't know which way to look when crossing the street. I can honestly say I most likely never will. I just walk, with the assumption that I'm too pretty to die young. I still become giddy when a stranger asks for directions and I actually know where to point them to. I love that I can complain about overground delays, and obnoxious Oxford Street pedestrians, but also still be baffled by the fact that it costs more to eat in a restaurant or cafe than it does to take away. (And relish in the fact that I say 'take away' and not 'take out'.) Or still feel shameful whenever I catch myself saying "You alright?" when a customer approaches the bar, instead of a classic Canadian, "Oh hey there! How are ya? How's it going, eh?"
I can rely on the immense strength of the friendships I've created, and allowed to blossom into relationships that I never expected to find, let alone depend on. But most importantly, I can find comfort in myself, knowing that whatever comes my way, I have the ability to face it, with confidence and a prideful independence. I brought myself here one year ago. And if this year has brought me anything, it's the strength and courage to embrace another year with an open heart, an eager mind, and the mentality to welcome any and every new adventure that is sure to come my way.
So cheers to you, London. To one more year and all it has to offer. May we indulge in every experience we share, laugh at every downfall, smile, grit, and bare the rest and hope to God when the year is up, it will not be the end. But instead a start to something even better.
