"love"

A few weeks ago, I was contacted by Katrina from Eating London about joining one of their tours. If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you may have noticed that I haven’t accepted many tours or trips; it’s just a personal thing. After reading Tom’s post about the same tour, though, and when I realised that the tour would take place in my neighbourhood, East London, I became very, very intrigued. Since moving to London I’ve decided that I’d like to do a bit more “backyard blogging”, which is writing about the place in which you live. As I live in the best city on earth, and in the best neighbourhood in the best city on earth, this means writing a lot more about East London and how much this part of town has to offer.

There, standing on the bridge that would take me to my flat, is a young man, his arms outstretched in wanting embrace, his face delighted at the sight of me. Looking at him you would have thought we were old friends, new lovers, that we had shared laughs or drinks or at least a handshake.

I have never seen him before in my life.

12 years ago, I was getting ready to start another day at high school; it was my first week of being in Grade 12, my first week as a prefect. It was picture day, so I had woken up early to spend a bit more time on my hair and makeup, make sure my shirt and blazer were ironed properly. I was in the kitchen when my dad called from work.

“Something happened in New York, ” he said. My mum and brother were there, too, so the three of us huddled around the TV and watched with horror as the towers burned. My hometown is an hour behind New York, and so we had been sitting there, eating cereal, chatting about the upcoming day, without knowing what had happened, without knowing that the world was falling apart.

A beautiful mural depicting social change versus a random tag on a random brick wall – how do we approve one, but disregard the other? The line seems to be drawn somewhere between construction and destruction; the work must take on some form of cultural significance, or, well, at least just look good.

“I can stitch up your chin if you want,” the young woman told me as she pressed yet another alcohol-soaked cloth onto my bleeding face. A monkey peered at me from the window. I could hear the cries of exotic birds. My clothes were still covered in mud, and everything hurt.

“Have you…” I struggled to find the right words; I didn’t want to offend her or seem impolite. “Have you ever stitched a human face before?”

“I love this house,” I said to my mum over the weekend. “It just feels like home. I wish I could pick it up and take it to London with me.”

I bought this house in 2011, primarily as an investment. I rent it out when I’m not around, and will be finding full-time renters in September. It’s also been a great place for me to hang up my hat, so to speak, whenever I come back in town. I lived here for a few months in early 2012, in between trips to Asia and South America, and again for a few months this year, in between South America and moving to London. If the living room in the photo above looks awfully decorated for someone who is only there for a maximum of three months at a time, you may be right.