London was never really a place I thought much about. A big global capital that comes with all the fixings. Somewhere between European and American. Charming, in the way that English accents tend to be to American ears. It didn’t carry the allure that other, more foreign feeling European cities did. There wasn’t as much of a visual or cultural draw.

The first time I visited London was on a disasterous side trip from Paris while studying abroad. EasyJet delayed the hourlong flight by 4 hours and we ended up checking in with a fully drunk but very enthusiastic 20-something to let us into a tiny Airbnb room in the middle of Piccadilly Circus around midnight. I remember scrambling to Chinatown to try to grab a bite and convincing an auntie in Chinese to serve us takeout before closing shop. I was there for less than 72 hours. Walked around and saw the things you were supposed to see in Central London. Saw a show, had some tea, wandered through the looted artifacts at the British Museum, and then went right back to Paris with a new appreciation of the unfriendly but peaceful quiet of Paris.

For 10 years, London just became this entity that I was never opposed to visiting but also never sought out. In that time, Brexit happened, and I moved to New York, and the pandemic put the world on pause. And when I got to travel again, I continued to go everywhere but London. In my mind, London is like New York City in a different font. A place I could see myself living in, even if I couldn’t be bothered to visit as a tourist. In my mind, London would always be there, so why prioritize it?

The second time I went to London was fully against my will. An unplanned, very inconvenient 11 hour layover courtesy of Virgin Atlantic messing up my flight to Johannesburg (because yes, naturally I would go to South Africa before I would go to the UK). In those hours, I delighted in a solo walk around Notting Hill. It felt strange, uncanny. A little too easy to be able to speak freely in English and not feel bad about it. I went to the bakeries I had saved for years thinking it would someday come to use (it really did). Popped in and out of shops. Stared at the colorful houses waiting to feel something. Walked through Hyde Park remembering how unimpressed I was by the English gardens after witnessing Versailles. But it grew on me. The ease of existing in this city that ignored me as much as New York does. Blending into the diversity and doing all the things I’d do at home but with fresh eyes.

The third time I went to London it was finally intentional, on purpose, and a successful trip. 11 years after that first gander. This time for a week. Half working, half studying, half hanging with friends, I finally got to get a grasp of the city. Enough to take note of the neighborhoods I liked, to have some favorite streets. Enough to feel annoyed at Soho on a Saturday in London as much as I get annoyed at Soho on a Saturday in New York. Enough to realize what fresh hell it is to be anywhere near Westminster. Enough to appreciate the superiority of the tube and the Elizabeth line to the MTA and LIRR. Enough to fill my maps with bookmarked shops and cafes and restaurants and galleries and find little parts of this big big city that compelled me to stay. Enough to entertain the idea of maybe living here for a little bit. I still don’t think about London much in the context of travel. But it’s become a place that I think about going for work or for a weekend, a city I would never say no to laying over for a day or two. A place where I can easily entertain myself for a few hours or a few years. A city I’ll surely be returning to, regularly, and certainly to love it more each time.