Having visited London on two occasions previously, the city had already let down my expectations. To be fair, these were expectations made by movies such as Love Actually and Christmas carols whereby people dream of white Christmases and festive cheer. While my friend Bri and I first landed in London during the winter season, not only were we greeted by an EMPTY Heathrow Airport (with no Hugh Grant voiceover to declare that love is all you need) but skies so blue that even snow wouldn't be brave enough to disturb them. Not that we were complaining.
However, this sets a background for how in my experiences thus far, London has refused to let itself be categorised or stereotyped. You think people are grumpy? They'll bend over backwards to help you. The weather is miserable? You get sunny days on end. You declare everyone is dull and dress in dark colours? A lady with a shaved and tattooed head will walk by wearing a bright pink coat that allows her to show off the tattooed line running down the back of each leg.
But what then, does London think of the first impression I'm giving?
As soon as I landed a week ago, it was important to differentiate myself from the standard tourists. First step was learn to keep to the right hand side (unless driving) and walk quickly to move effortlessly amongst the cluster of commuters. Memorise the tube map before embarking on a journey. Avoid direct eye contact with fellow passengers on the tube. Be sure to maintain general hygiene standards. Restrain from breaking out into spontaneous sing and dance when listening to iPod. Etc etc.
So far I think I'm doing okay, though there's no doubt true Londoners would be able to see right through me. For example, only a crazy Australian would declare the weather warm enough to go for an early morning run in leggings and a t-shirt. While passing fellow enthusiasts as I walked to Regent's Park earlier this morning, I smugly patted myself on the back for adjusting to the new weather so well, I was tougher than the locals. However, after I began to jog it was only a matter of time before the cold air burned my lungs as I gasped for breath and my whole head began to throb. After only half an hour I returned to my lodgings with my tail between my legs and dreaming of a hot shower to awaken me from this cold stun. Note to self: exaggerated enthusiasm for exercise will only result in punishment.
The faux pas continued, as my happy greeting to the security man at the front desk distracted me from the obvious obstruction in my path. The front door.
Though I may have relocated to a different country, awkwardness has found a way to follow me all the way here. As far as first impressions go, I'm afraid London is probably bracing itself for an Australian version of Bridget Jones. Let's just hope there's a happy ending that involves a Mr Mark Darcy. One can only hope...
Love, Em xxx
I love you.....
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