Arriving

"Everything looks like Coronation Street."

The tall brick houses reminded me of everything I should expect from England and I felt safe in the knowledge that I had finally travelled sufficiently far enough away from home to finally breathe a sigh of relief.

I stayed in a backpacker's that night, courtesy of Bunac.  For some reason I cannot place that hostel now, lost in a sea of varying recollections. The streets were small but crowded and I felt claustrophobic. I slept with my belongings tucked closely to my body as I slept in a dorm housing men of various nationalities.

The next morning I went downstairs and enquired as to why I wasn't in a mixed dorm. The young guy looked at me blankly and said, "You were."

I didn't leave the hostel after breakfast of tea and toast. I calmly did my laundry, leaning up against the tumble dryer for hours as I read a magazine, the closest thing to normality I'd had in six weeks. I took strange pleasure in folding my hot laundry just the way I figured any independent adult would and packing it neatly away in my suitcase, pretending it was a set of drawers that didn't smell of airport. I reorganised the few belongings in my suitcase, the way one feng shuis their bedroom and I made a to do list.

I was tired and it was busy outside. London was busy. I lived in a city now and I knew that once I left the doors of the hostel I would have to deal with what was out there. I finished my magazine. Inhaled the smell of my my newly laundered clothes. And then set off for Swiss Cottage in north west London.