Leaving London

Following nearly five years' residence in the UK, I have just boarded a plane to relocate stateside. It's a gorgeous November day of untimely and generous sunshine. Physically, I feel calm despite the perplexing emotions swirling inside me. Immediately upon boarding, I inform anyone who will listen that my precious pet dog (Lucky) is travelling in the cargo hold. The Captain is advised and I'm assured that oxygen, pressure and temperature within the hold will be regulated.

I'm sat in First Class (a rare and lucky touch) and the luxury lightens my mood. I feel somewhat numb (probs from that 10mg Sri Lankan valium I swallowed before staggering through airport security). As the plane readies for take-off, I stare out the window at the oddly sunny day. Take-off is remarkably smooth (I wonder whether everything feels better in First Class) and the airline staff are keeping me sweet.

As the plane rises, I see sprawling green landscapes and wide still lakes that (for some reason) remind me of Shrewsbury. Matt, an ex-boyfriend, is on my mind. Last night we shared some last-minute leaving drinks attended by many beloved mates. Matt stayed till the last and despite my cautionary reticence throughout our separation these last (what) nine months (how has it been nine months?!) we shared a brief bittersweet kiss before parting. The kiss, however slight, rustled the sores of the sloppy break-up. Towards the end of my tenure in London, I sort of stopped dealing with things altogether. Or maybe there was just too much to deal with. In any case, my brain became clouded and I do not know.

The brightly-coloured landscape grows smaller and smaller. We enter the clouds and I see them swirling around us as the ground fades away completely. Soon we're above the clouds and they appear almost cartoonish—like cotton wool or the crest of a wave. And higher still—we plunge into and beyond a boundless white layer. Faintly below, I can still see a now colourless grid of land.

Altitude amounting, I see nothing but gradients of white and blue and an island of brightness, which I presume is the sun. If I look out the window and back, I can see one of the aircraft's steel wings and a riveted jet turbine—I can even see the propeller whirring inside. First Class is lush. I'm wearing complimentary pajamas and slippers and curled up in my seat-cum-bed alongside a glass of award-winning Italian Pinot Grigio, crudites and dip, and warm mixed nuts while the staff cater to my every need (needs I'd neither considered nor expected; this being the first I've travelled in such luxury).

I've just ordered the Beef Fillet with Mushroom Bordelaise for dinner, i.e. grilled filet of beef served with porcini mushroom butter and bordelaise sauce, diced yellow peppers, haricots verts, baby carrots and poached olive oil potatoes. It seemed to me the most decadent of the dining options. I don't feel like I'm flying; rather like I'm relaxing at home with the added bonus of being waited on hand and foot. There's no comparison between Economy and First Class; the difference is palpable—almost cruelly—and despite my current appreciation, I'm not without conflict and find myself wishing that everyone could experience a class act.

I've always flown Economy with leg room wanting, revolting food products and pissed off flight attendants (— unapologetic knocking of elbows and knees with preservative-packed food carts). Much as I've failed to reckon with money (hence flying First Class on my parents' hard-earned frequent flyer miles), I can't deny its seemingly limitless and deceptively comforting perks.

But I digress. All I can see now are clouds and the occasional slice of ocean. I suspect I'm too shocked to process what's happening, i.e. my relocation from London to Miami. Miami my hometown. Miami where my entire family lives. Miami, which I was once so proud to leave behind. I wonder whether I'll hardly know the city anymore and look forward to becoming reacquainted. From where I'm standing (—too richly considering), I anticipate an uphill battle and feel distressed by creeping doubts that I won't make it. But that is why I'm coming home: to find myself and (most importantly) to not lose myself.

Dinner is served, but I'm hardly hungry and resisting the urge to slip everything into my bag for later. It's funny how I've struggled so, but now maxing in First Class. It's surreal. The whole ordeal... I'm not visiting home, I'm moving back home. Into my parents' crowded house. After nearly five years of comfortable avoidance, total independence and standard non-communication. And I'm nearly thirty! Of course I want (and desperately need) to move forward, and home is home to so many comforts and opportunities, not least an abundance of (awkward) familial relationships I've ignored too eagerly while residing abroad.

Ah London. I can't help but look back. London my London. I'm so sad and confused to leave you. I remember too well the culture shock and painful adjustment I encountered years ago upon arrival—and I expect the same to occur this time in Miami, notwithstanding the home court advantage.

Although it's the surveillance capital of the world and the Home Office holds my biometric data (hair samples, fingerprints and all), I felt anonymous in London—an esteemed advantage I will miss in Miami; albeit lately and much of the time, I've complained endlessly of the disadvantages of being an alien.

I worry that I'll return to Miami and lose myself. Far away from the company I've kept these last influential years. It might be a while till I begin processing what's happened—and longer still till I scribe it. I'm saddened by the mere fact of leaving. Far sadder than I was to leave Miami. For there I went and here I come. Back and forth.

Oh London. What will I do without you? I'm wallowing in sadness right now. I'll permit that much for the journey. But tackle I must the comeback with wisdom and resolve. These days, I'm on the brink of tears more than ever and now is no exception. While I am genuinely excited for a fresh start, the prospect also terrifies me. The main feeling, momentarily, is a rippling sensation throughout my body... a deep-seated sense of loss and mourning to miss so many key facets of London.

I know I sound like a right spoiled cunt while family await my return. I just feel so lonesome. Saying goodbye to so many people—many of whom I might never see ever again—is heart-wrenching. Sure, I will meet new people; but what of those I dearly love and those I lost and those I missed countless times?

We do ourselves no favours to think this way. We harden and move on. But maybe we can soften; maybe we can soften and strengthen simultaneously. At the end of the day, I suppose I'm most scared of my own shadow. I find it difficult to sit still. So this is what I tackle first. Living with myself. That's it.

(I fear my heart will always wish it were elsewhere. I fear my heart unable to shake this feeling of homelessness...)

Ever forward—the only viable option.

I see a vast expanse of sea and clouds. I worry how Lucky fares in the cargo hold. I chip away at a vegetable-laden salad with balsamic vinaigrette. I miss Jules. I miss Danny. I even miss Jon. I miss everything that could have been. I miss when Bean and I were closer. I miss Your Niece unleashing bass-laced glitch upon a sweaty eruption of wreckheads. I miss Jerome. I miss the days when we worked together in Bow. I miss the sunset wall mural in my former flat. I miss the double rainbow I spray-painted haphazardly in the loo. I miss British accents. I miss the community in Warren House. I do not miss the shit strip.

I have everything to look forward to, but still I miss the bubble that was. So much so it lingers behind my eyes. So fresh the separation—so drastic. But every cloud... for goodness will prevail when I write it. Of that much I am confident.