life, london, this moment in june
In London, we’re at the tail end of the first heatwave of the summer. If you’re not American, please don’t ask me how hot it was today. I couldn’t tell you. Since moving to the UK two years ago, the logic of Fahrenheit is one of the few things I cling to from the Old Country. British people are always talking about the weather, saying some number between 0 and 40, and I have to pretend like it means anything to me.
So I’ve transcended the need for thermometers. I measure temperature with vibes now. For example, today was the temperature at which I really fancy a beer.
This is such a rarefied desire for me that I remember the exact moment I felt it for the first time. On a street on the edges of the French Quarter in New Orleans, I joined the procession of a jazz funeral just as the music went from sombre to swinging. I was 19, a moderately experienced underage drinker who avoided frat party kegs in favour of hard alcohol with saccharin mixers. But as I danced through air as humid as breath, a craving hit with the force of an epiphany. I wanted a beer. I bought a Corona for two dollars cash from a man with a cooler on the sidewalk and brought the sweating bottle to my lips. Is there a good way to describe the taste of beer? It tastes like beer. And that day, I liked it for the first time.
Anyway, now I’m sitting at my kitchen table with the window open and an IPA from the off-license, trying to think of what I can write about the past two months.
In May and June, I lived in my body more than in my mind. I moved a lot, in circles and lines, on foot and bike and ferries. I slept deeply and thought very little. I was all over the place, literally. Between day trips and holidays, I spent more time out of London than I have since I moved here.
In May, Dan, Eleanor, and I spent a lovely few days in a rural corner of southwest France. We explored castles, monasteries, and the aisles of Carrefour. I took responsibility for cooking, Eleanor for cheese, and Dan for wine.
I’m afraid I’m not beating the MAMIL allegations. I’ve kept up my near-daily trips around town and conquered my fear of clipless pedals. Two months ago, I’d never cycled more than forty miles. Now, I’ve done it six times. Ben and I cycled over every bridge in London. With Doug and friends, I went south to the Surrey Hills, north to Cambridge, and east to Canterbury (an exhausting effort for me, but simply the first day of a six-week journey across Europe for Doug). And then there was the big one: Dunkirk to Amsterdam over a long weekend. I’m still not over how much fun that was.
On the day we cycled to Cambridge, I got to swim in my beloved Jesus Green Lido. The water was still chilly enough to feel a rush. I paddled along, breathless from the cold and the mix of feelings working their way through me. There was the lingering adrenaline from the cycle, the wash of peace that came now that it was done. There was nostalgia for a time that was not long ago but already blurring in my memory. More than anything, though, there was the most welcome feeling of being alive, as clear as the water was cold.
This is it, this is everything, I thought.
I felt it with the same certainty with which I craved a beer years ago on that New Orleans street. When this kind of feeling comes your way, first you must be grateful. Then you’ve got to pay attention. These moments fade quickly, but if you’re open to it, they can reorient you in lasting ways.
The trouble was I didn’t know what I meant. Was I simply glad to be swimming? Should I make it my main objective in life to live within a short cycle of Jesus Green? Or was the journey here the source of my joy? Or the knowledge that, at that very moment, Izzy was cooking dinner to share? Or was it the view of Doug on a bench by the pool with a space next to him where I’d soon sit? Am I just addicted to cycling? (I fear the answer may be yes.)
Wherever I go, there’s a part of me that questions whether I’d be better off living there. This question feels most pressing when I find myself in places that are green or quiet, the ones that seem to offer a simpler way of being in the world. Staying in that stone house in the village in France, I felt close to certain that the most important things I will ever do are swim in a river, read a book, and share dinner with my friends.
I think what draws me to rural places is the sense that in that setting, the virtues of such a simple life would be self-evident. To live for a swim or a good meal wouldn’t demand justification. But I like where I live, not least because the friends I’d like to welcome to my table are making their lives here, too. I don’t want to live in the countryside, and I definitely don’t need a second home in France. I just want to do what matters. What I must remember is that I can do the important things anywhere I go. And so long as I pay attention, I think that I will.
favourites! (giving myself two of each bc it’s been two months)
best thing I read — Persuasion by Jane Austen & On Beauty by Zadie Smith (first time truly enjoying both of these legendary writers - how lucky I feel that there’s so many old/new books to read and love); best thing I watched — Operation Mincemeat (shoutout Doug) & London Road (shoutout Dan & Eleanor); the best thing I listened to — Cassandra Jenkins at KOKO & the album Say Old Man by Alfi (I’m listening to this as I write, soundtrack to the summer, I’m calling it now); the best place I went — a giant cookware store in Amsterdam & the V&A Storeroom (shoutout Ciana); the best thing I made — finished Cloud Sweater by petiteknit & pbj blondies; best thing I ate — anchovy bread and olive oil frozen custard at Brat (shoutout Doug)
