It’s just dawned on me that this time a year ago I was gearing up to get on a plane to London. So, it’s been a year since I started living 3000 miles from home, and a year since I had to start looking the other way before crossing the street. And in that year I somehow managed to make friends, attend lectures, get favorite restaurants, knit together a mental map of London, went to the Lake District, went to a music festival, picnicked in parks, saw bonfires on Guy Fawkes’ day,
probably definitely drank too much, moved house in a city, and somehow pulled together a thesis.
Going home for two weeks is exciting, but afterwards comes the job hunt (any job. please.), the PhD, receiving marks back, and all sorts of big scary things.
But I suppose we just get on with it.
There’s this lovely grey to autumn here in England, and a prevailing chill that we in Virginia only feel in late October and early November. The trees and the grass absorb the intermittent rain, and the changing leaves are lush rather than dry and brittle. Everything seems mossy and verdant, punctuated by gradient shades of yellow and copper. The ivy on the neighboring house has already shifted into the most beautiful shades of red. When the late afternoon sun hits it (at an increasingly early hour) it looks like a shoot of fire across the abused brick. Honestly, I’m excited to spend a bit more time with autumn in London, rather than spending it holed up in the library.