About a month and a half ago, I was less-than-cozily nestled in seat 34A on a red-eye flight bound for London. 39,000 feet above the Atlantic, I had given up on any feeble attempt to catch some sleep and preserve myself from the impending jetlag.
Face pressed to the window, my breath fogging up the cold plastic, I struggled to identify what was keeping me up. Unsettlingly, the only song that was downloaded to my phone playlist was John Mayer’s “I Will Be Found (Lost at Sea),” and every bout of turbulence felt like some kind of perverse joke from the Universe.
Despite this realization, I couldn’t keep myself from staring out the window that evening. The view was particularly captivating, and if my face hadn’t been plastered to the sill, I would’ve missed the shooting star darting across the night sky. It was, I had decided, the first of many transcendent experiences I would have on my journey. For the first time in 14 years, I was returning to London, the city where I spent a fairly sizeable — and immensely privileged — portion of my childhood. And, most significantly, I was traveling completely alone.
My expectations for this 10-day odyssey were lofty. When I walked down the street, I expected “The Parent Trap” soundtrack to play from some unknown source in the sky. I envisioned being served high tea with the Queen at Kensington Palace. The weather would be a balmy 72 degrees and sunny everyday, I was going to meet Banksy and I would undoubtedly fall in love. I told myself companions would inhibit my ability to truly appreciate my surroundings and detract from my cinematic vision.
In retrospect, my naiveté was pretty extreme as expectations seldom mirror reality. Initially, I wound up getting sucked into congested and expensive tourist traps just to tick things off the proverbial checklist of London must-sees. It was irritating, exhausting and, altogether, unfulfilling.
To my knowledge, I did not meet Banksy. Nor did I fall in love. In hindsight, this was probably for the best, considering agreeing to a date with a stranger on the basis of his British accent is not a sensible life choice.
I also did not get to meet the Queen for palatial afternoon tea. However, I did surprise my old porter, George — who still works at our flat 14 years later — with chocolate cake and English breakfast tea. On my walk from the café, I got caught, defenseless, in a torrential downpour. I ran the entire mile back to my flat, laughing — or potentially crying — at my melodramatic situation: there was art, there was passion, there was pouring rain. Suffice to say, London was not 72 degrees and sunny everyday — or ever, really. But hey, I got my movie moment, right?
Much to my chagrin, the most meaningful experiences I had were ones I shared. Hopelessly attempting to navigate the London Underground — my personal hell — I met a 15-year-old Chinese boy who was equally lost. We ended up spending an additional hour commuting together; he gained a chatty travel companion and I gained a new pen pal.
When Su, my former nanny, found out I was in town, her family took it upon themselves to drive me around for three hours so I could experience London lit up at night — a truly ethereal experience. Su’s son, Bahir, took me to revisit my primary school and favorite playground in Hyde Park.
I went back to London to be a tourist only to find that rediscovering my roots —particularly the people attached to them — made for an infinitely more gratifying journey. On my last evening, Su’s family cooked me an elaborate feast of Sri Lankan food and we piled onto their tiny couch to watch “Cast Away.”
Tori’s column runs biweekly Friday. She can be reached at t.travers@cavalierdaily.com.
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