Nomad's Pub

London Times

London. City of Museums. Capitol of the world. Place where the stuff in your nose turns black...

And I am there. (So I guess that means I am "here.")

Yes, I am here.

Boat rides up and down the flowing Thames (That's pronounced "tems" for those of you unfamiliar with the river); picknics along its banks comprised of fresh fruit bought from a street vendor. Westminster... Big Ben... Trafalgar Square and the pigeons lurking about plotting all manner of evil against you... Waterloo & Victoria Stations... Kings Cross... Shakespeare's Globe... cozy, dark pubs...constant refils of English tea.

Walking once more along familiar paths... running again the roads which first taught you the habit... Revisiting favourite haunts and enjoys old tastes; what waking from a long winter's hibernation must feel like.

Friends. So good to meet up once more with friends. Want to memorize their faces; sear the moment and the time into memory. Never forget. Knowing that it is friends who make a place a home; friends who make a home a place to come back to. And each time you come back... there are less faces that you know. As one of my friends here famously said, London is an aircraft carrier; people are always coming and going in droves. But for each friend whose face has vanished into the fog of the city... vanished from the fog of the city... there comes a new face to meet. A new face to learn and never forget.

Never forget.

A friend is someone you come home to, who makes home, who is home...

It's funny how much you can fit into 12 hours of time; how much you can fit into 24 hours.

It's funny how much can change in 12 hours; how much can change in 24 hours; in one minute or one second.

Lean your head against the glass in the train; watch the scenery wash by. Running towards something or leaving something behind; saying hello or saying goodbye. The glass is half empty or half full.

Sit on the train and ride. Mile by mile; kilometre by kilometre--you use both.

Watch the rain droplets slide across the pane; look until you view is obscured by your own exhaling.

Your pain is your own doing; your decisions of your choice alone.


Walk along the river and let your teardrops mix with the raindrops rolling down your face. Let your tears fall with the rain pouring from the weary, heavy laden skies. No one in the sea of faces all around knows whether you cry for joy or pain. No one in the sea of faces notices you at all. You are just another face; it is just another rainy day; and these are London times.

posted by Lada @ 11:57 AM