Month: January 2016

The Lumiere light festival was in town for the first time January 14-17, showing off beautifully designed light shows, exhibits, and experiences. The displays were not just pretty lights, as one might imagine considering the festival is named after the famous film-making Lumiere brothers, but also large and complex structures that must have required a lot of technical attention.

Luckily, I didn’t have to think about that aspect of the festival, and my friends and I were awed by the exhibits we saw. On one section of road near Regent Street, ghostly flying forms took flight to strangely calming music, while on a building facade nearby, a film of dappled lights combined to show people’s faces. Standing exhibits in Leicester Square felt like walking into a magical storybook — impossibly tall flowers that glowed from within, color-shifting fairy lights and red-topped, giant blades of grass were dotted all over.

Many people, like me, lost their companions several times when one or the other person stopped to admire a display. The usually hurried and harried people of London took a pause to take in the art, perhaps because it was unusual and diverting from the standard tourist-center attractions. But I stopped and gaped, and ooh-ed and ahh-ed, because the festival of lights played a chord deep inside me, where the happiest memories of childhood adventure and discovery lie.

This was a joyful activity that didn’t require much money, just transportation to and from the displays, and which brought a wintry, sullen London more to life as its inhabitants flocked to the streets to see the lights. It sounds like a scene from a Garcia Marquez novel, but it’s true: there was magic and nostalgia in the lights somehow, and the people felt it. I look forward to welcoming Lumiere London back next year, and will make sure I see all of the exhibits, because the feeling they brought me was really priceless.

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The view from the top of Parliament Hill, on Hampstead Heath, is a favorite of North Londoners, and a personal favorite of mine. Every time I go for a jog on the Heath, I struggle up the steep incline to Parliament Hill just to take in the vista. I do this regardless of the weather, however the photos from those trips tend to come out in grayscale. Whenever I have visitors, I haul them up to the top in ragged breaths and await their praise of the crown jewel of my neighborhood. Usually, I am not disappointed by their exclamations. (The pictures, taken on a phone, don’t do it justice.)

Many people have a place like this near their home, where they love to stop and admire the view even if it is a bit out of their way or a picture wouldn’t come out — because they’re not visiting for the picture, they are simply enjoying the view and the environment.

Here are some of the loveliest snapshots from the last year and a half.

The challenges, and attendant questions, of moving abroad to another country are many. Where do I live? How does the transportation system work? Can I really eat that? Could you please repeat that, slowly?

Undoubtedly, one of the greater sacrifices is distancing oneself from family and friends (if you liked them enough to live near them before, which I personally did). With modern wonders such as Skype, FaceTime, WhatsApp, Instagram, and Facebook, I can stay “in touch” with all of the people I miss.

One of my closest friends, Emily, and I have an interesting bestfriendship (Yes, this may not be a real word). When we lived in the same city, we often saw each other and when we weren’t hanging out in person, we were in contact via text. We didn’t really talk on the phone — there seemed little need, because we saw each other enough to be properly caught up and our texts essentially served to set up the next time we were going to do so (and also to complain about/gush over things we discovered during the day). I remember calling her one day just to say hi, when we both still lived in NYC, and she said, “Oh my god, what’s wrong?! Are you okay?” After a beat of confusion during which I was clearly alive and uninjured, Emily said, “Well, we never call each other just to chat!”

I had to admit this was true. Emily and I chat in person, where we are both far more engaging than on the phone. I felt momentarily guilty for that, with “calling to chat” being the apparent social-pressure litmus test for how good of a friend you are. So for us to transition to an international bestfriendship where we would necessarily have to talk on the phone has taken some effort. We still don’t Skype very often, preferring to text each other as we always did with questionable outfit pictures (“Can I wear this with this? I feel like no, but I need your opinion!”), minor life updates, random observations, pep talks, and sometimes, just emoticons detailing how much we miss each other and how much pizza we’re going to eat while watching a Pixar film next time we are together.

I am learning that the relationships which can withstand the test of time, distance, and time difference are often those that don’t require constant or even occasional catch-up sessions or check-ins. The solid gold nugget of those friendships is already formed. There is no guilt for living a life outside of the friendship. If I haven’t communicated with Emily for a while, I can still send a stupid GIF without explanation or an email with a link to an event in New York she might like to attend. It’s an illusion of being a short subway journey away, instead of 3,000 miles.

The only downside is that we see each other much less often, of course. When we do get a day or two together, and then must finally say goodbye, we are just two grown-ass women crying in the elevator, thankful for our gold nugget of friendship.