London calling

I should warn you right now: I am feeling miserably sentimental.

Seriously – my brain is a squishy pile of emotional goo right now. I can’t quite identify the source. But going through my photos from our London trip, I am finding myself with the overwhelming desire to pack up my bag and hop on the next flight to Heathrow. Yes, this would be ill-advised. Yes, this would be expensive. No, I do not think, in any way, shape, or form, that this would be a good idea.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Sometimes my heart and my brain can’t agree.

Rand and I left for London directly from New York. We were gone for more than two weeks. During that time, the oft-neglected plant that I’ve had for years managed to cheat death once again. We were gone so long, I forgot what our house smelled like (inexplicably, it’s melted crayons, garlic, and cinnamon. Do not ask me what I’ve been up to in the kitchen). And right now it is very, very good to be home, for the brief span of time that we’ll actually be here.

So why do I miss London so acutely? Why do I want to go to a country that’s so gray and miserable, and full of strangers, and so damn far away from home?

For once, the answers come easily …

It’s because the gray skies there weren’t all that gray.

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Really, the color was more of a what you’d call a sky blue. Go figure.

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And it’s not that miserable, really. No. The word I’d use would be “jovial.” Or “absurdly happy.”

Just ask Will and this baby that he found whether or not they are miserable.

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It’s not really full of strangers, either.

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But I’m being impractical, aren’t I? I mean, England’s not that great. The folks there are way, way too stodgy and buttoned-up. They wouldn’t like our crazy liberal American ways …

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Okay, fine. Maybe “stodgy” is the wrong word. But still. England is a bit … well, formal, isn’t it? It’s not dripping with romance like Rome or Madrid. You don’t wander the streets of London staring amorously at your love, right?

Then again, maybe you do.

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GAH! Okay, okay, fine. Maybe England isn’t grey and miserable, and maybe it’s full of lots of friends and wonderful, good-natured folks who laugh at our jokes and are way, way more liberal than we could ever dream of being back home. But I can’t pack up everything and run there at a moment’s notice, can I? I mean, my husband has a company, for the love of the Pete. He has business to do here in the states. And folks with whom he works. It’s not like he can pack up all his colleagues and coworkers and drag them to the U.K., right?

Screw it. Where’s my passport?