If I could live anywhere in the world, it would be London. Or England in general. Don't ask me why—I don't have a legitimate answer, just a feeling I get when I'm there. The people, the architecture, the pubs, the rainy weather, I love it all. Ever since I can remember (before I'd even stepped foot in the UK), I've had a love affair with British culture. Which is why I didn't mind one bit that our European tour ended in the same place it began. Behold, the foggy city.
I didn't sleep a wink the night before we boarded our train from Paris to London. I was particularly sad the next morning, for reasons that no longer matter, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I barely remember telling our fellow travelers goodbye as they loaded their luggage onto the bus that would take them to the airport for their long journey home.
But when Kristen and I arrived in London, after coming this close to missing our ride (talk about an adrenaline rush!), I was myself again. We walked around the city, arm-in-arm, reminiscing over the events of the last few weeks and discussing in detail all that lay ahead. We snapped a few obligatory photos along the way—of Big Ben, London from the Eye, Westminster Abbey, a traveling circus—and then popped a squat on the steps of the Victoria Memorial to ponder life's greatest mysteries: How did we end up here? Lifelong best friends, thousands of miles from home, on the verge of adulthood. So many different crossroads in our twenty-two years of living had led us to where we stood, and yet, the weight pressing on both of our hearts could only mean that the most important ones were still to come.
A thousand and one things awaited us at home. But the future wasn't so scary, we agreed, as long as we had each other. As long as we had this moment, and the memory of London.