Everyone has a dream, right? Not the kind where you get chased through the desert by a thousand monkeys in your underwear (you’re in your underwear, not the monkeys). Everyone has that dream too, obviously, but no. I mean a real dream. Winning the House Cup, defeating Voldemort, you know what I mean. London is my dream.
I did the People to People student ambassador program when I was 13. I saw Italy, I saw France, I saw, regrettably, a LOT of underpants. A bus jam-packed with forty 8th graders? It was bound to happen.
Anyway, our last stop on the trip was a measly 48 hours in London. I saw more in that 48 hours than I did that time I binge-watched season 3 of Orange is the New Black (last weekend) and all that crazy shit went down (SPOILERS!). I saw Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and the Tower of London. I rode the London Eye and ate fish and chips (twice). I saw a performance by the legendary percussionist/dance group STOMP and had a picnic in Trafalgar Square. I even saw Fleet Street, Diagon Alley, and 221B Baker Street (though 13-year-old me did not get how awesome that was at the time). The city changed me. I like to think I grew up a lot that summer, though it’s debatable. We are still talking about the girl who was given a credit card for said trip just to leave it at home by accident.
I digress (you’ll soon learn that I digress a lot in my writing), London is my dream. I’ve been itching to go back since the minute I left and now it is finally happening. I want to sit in a cafe outside in a leather jacket in September because it’s actually cold enough for one. I want to ride a subway that could actually pass a health inspection. I want to be a short train ride away from Paris and Barcelona. It’s all going to be real so soon and yeah, I’m freaking out a little. There is a lot to get done before I go, but I have my ticket, I have a place to live, and I refuse to have anything but a perfect experience.